Resistance
by Heliopause
Summary: In occupied Narnia, in the very heart of the enemy's stronghold, she found danger, secrets... and a chance to change Narnia's whole future. Book-canon. Rated T for violence, in some sections; violence and character death warning, especially Chapter 15.
1. Recruitment of a Wetnurse

**I don't, of course, own the characters of Doctor Cornelius or the Nurse - though I have given her a name - nor of most of the Telmarine nobility; I am very, very grateful to C.S. Lewis for Narnia.**

**Resistance**

**Prologue:**

He remembered the arrogant young idiot he had been, a quarter-century ago, fresh from his high studies, believing there could be no greater value than the learning he had gained, that in bringing it to the Cause he was bringing a gift of inestimable value. He remembered the words he had spoken – words never to be forgotten it seemed – in the council, when they had told him they were introducing to him a woman of no learning and no family, with the unimpressive name of Moll, and introducing her with the set task of teaching him the Half-brood ways he had half-forgotten amongst Men and (for one always-remembered winter, in utter secrecy, in a distant valley) Centaurs.

"I don't need to be _taught_ how to be Dwarf-brood – I am what I am! I make my own culture! And I certainly don't take lessons from some insignificant countrywife who's never seen beyond her own kettles!"

He remembered Krimbin's quick glance, and warning quirk of the eyebrow. Amongst the rest, there had been a muffled laugh. And there she had been in the doorway, furious, vindictive, embodied hard energy in a rock-hard stumpy body. He knew he had made an unforgiving enemy; knew somehow that her fealty to the Cause would make her still his teacher, and that she would teach exhaustively and well, but that he would regret his words every single day of her teaching. As indeed he had.

**ooooo**

**Chapter 1. Recruitment of a Wet-nurse.**

Krimbin stumped into the meeting-room – a cowshed on the outskirts of the city – carrying with him a grim sadness that to Sletha, at least, was as palpable as bitter smoke. They didn't ask, and after a half-minute, he breathed a long, steadying breath, and pulled himself upright to report.

"I have bad news. From the palace."

Which made it clear what the news must be, since there was currently only one active agent at the palace, but the protocols had to be followed, the reports had to be given, and heard. Grattandrack, leader of this handful of Half-brood and rebels, braced himself, and asked what they all knew already. "Lithasrien?"

Suddenly tears stood in Krimbin's hard eyes; the cold sank into them all, waiting until he could go on.

"Miraz… he caught her in sunlight. He knew at once. He had her strangled instantly."

Murmurs from the gathering, and from one tall figure a long, difficult exhalation. Overhead, the owls glanced sideways at each other.

"How? … How?"

"We think someone suspected and set a trap… she was called into the Great Hall, supposedly to show off the little princeling to the…" He spat. "… _Protector_. We don't know who the traitor was. She... she was led to stand next to a great tapestry, flat on the wall, seemingly – but it was curtaining across an oriel, glass windows… just at the time the sun would strike through."

They remembered her lightness, her loveliness. They saw, each of them, how her slender form would have lilted and laughed to the sun, inescapably giving back light for light, even as she must have tried to escape into shadow. There was no need to talk about what had followed.

Grattandrak, grim-faced, spoke in sharp, dry tones. "Be clear. A trap, or an accident?"

"No accident! Someone put her there, someone put that tapestry in that place! and contrived it to fall."

Then – discovery, or treachery? Gattandrack's eyes flicked from one to another of the little group in the shed – half-a-dozen Dwarf-brood, Sletha the Hare, a hard-eyed Goat, a water-girl, the dark wood-man, two placid-looking ducks, the emissary from Archenland… His face hardened suddenly.

"_You_'d best leave. Our gratitude and greetings to His Lordship, but … you have heard that there is perhaps a traitor within our own network. We cannot have you with us as we discuss our next move. If you are truly a friend of Narnia, if His Lordship is truly a friend, you and he will understand why we cannot allow you to remain in this council now."

The emissary stood up abruptly, as if unsure whether to take this for an insult, on his own behalf or on his master's. Gattandrack turned to the Goat.

"Flet, see our friend to the gate out from the city."

"Beh-h-h." The Goat answered with just a low moaning bleat. He was well used to working in deep cover, and would utter no word aloud in the speech of men in the presence of any but the most trusted friend. Moving to the Archenlander's side, he skilfully slipped his collar over the man's hand, and began to move to the door.

The Archenlander shrugged. "Another time, then. I will be back for the summer markets. Strength and fortune to the Cause till then."

"Fortune go with you," replied Grattandrack grimly.

There was silence, save for the soft shuffling of the owls overhead, until the noise of the Goat's hoofs had died away. Grattandrack's eyes, fierce and hard, swept around the group, piercingly, commandingly, blocking any direction for talk save the one he chose.

"So. Our first attempt has failed. If we aren't to lose this chance, we need another nurse, _now_. We need to get her into the palace."

"True… true….", came in a rustling murmur from the rafters. The tall wood-man turned, and leaned his face into his arm, against the wall. The brief silence was broken by one of the Ducks.

"But the prince is near five months old now… does he still need to be fed like a hatchling?"

"Yes – and not like a hatchling either. It will still need human milk pushed into its mouth. They grow slow, Uach. If we can get in, he'll be ours to mould for years."

"So, how do we get in? How did _she_ get in?" Nobody bothered to answer, except a low snarl from one of the Dogs. Uach had not been part of the conspiracy when it was formed, and hadn't known Lithasrien; her cheerful curiosity now grated on those who were in grief.

"We have our chance again, but we must grab it strong and quick." Grattadrack again. "We need another woman-shaped to volunteer."

"Yes, we have the chance. _They_ won't be able to keep the babe alive, even if they wanted to – even if there were a lady of the court willing to use her body to nourish the child." This voice – sardonic, gravelly – was that of one of the older female Dwarf-brood present.

"Not Prismia?" It was the water-girl, Larissa, the soft music of her voice sharpened by fear and sorrow.

"Pah! Prismia is too dainty of her shape for that. And the wise doctors of Telmar know nothing of ways to bring on milk in a quiet breast. _We_ can do it – or even bring milk into a Dwarf-brood breast."

"But can the plan work anyway?" Larissa's eyes flicked around the room and the shaking in her voice "To try to shape the future king to be on our side – what hope does the sweet Narnian milk of a wet-nurse have, to work against his thick Human blood?"

More than one face registered the irony of such an objection coming from the most human-looking conspirator present – the one with the most human blood in her veins, indeed, far more than Lisathrien. But even so, even so – her life was in the same danger as all the others, if just one sharp-eyed informer saw past the dominant humanness to the tell-tale signs of a distant naiad foremother.

"And why try to win a _king_?," she persisted, "Why go to the palace at all? Why do we pour all this effort into the very source of our persecution? Why not give that flow to win over the ordinary Humans? They are the real hope here."

They all knew the history of Larissa's pure-Human father, and what had happened to him, and how young she had been, then. They knew that, and some of them guessed at her terror now. Grattandrak tried to make his voice less harsh as he turned to her.

"Larissa, there's two things to be said. One is, the plan's been made, made and decided, and you don't catch fish by changing rods half way. To get hold of the child young is our cell's work. And the second one is – none of us Dwarves or Dwarf-brood are really king-lovers at core, see? This country works best under a king or queen, we don't deny that, but us ourselves, we'd rather keep to our selves, and run our own lives."

"Dwarves are for the dwarves," came in a grim undertone from the darkness against the walls, and there was a small grimace of agreement from most of the Dwarf-brood around the circle in the lampglow. Grattandrak clenched his fist on the table.

"Yes, but to _be_ for the dwarves, and for all of us in this trap, we have to work through the kingship. And we have all agreed throughout the network, this plan to use the mewling brat is our best chance."

" 'Our best chance'! To wait twenty or thirty years for a baby who may not even survive to grow up, and bring in a new milksop administration, which will let us creep out again? I say our best chance is assassination _now_! With Miraz gone…"

"You _could_ have said that… you _could have_, Baroggich, but the network has consulted and the decision-in-council was made last Midsummer. We agreed then: better ten or twenty years waiting and then a more sure chance of success. It's not just this cell; we don't overturn here in one night the strategy of the whole network." Baroggich growled, but subsided, and Larissa bowed her head.

Grattadrach spoke again, slowly and grimly, his hard eyes boring into the knot of Halflings present. "Dwarves _stay_. If there's one thing we can all learn from Dwarvish heritage it is to stay, and to grind an enemy down. Call me Half-brood, but I'm Dwarf enough to know we don't need to be quick if we can be hard. Hard stones will grind the grist at last."

Krimbin looked down; the other Dwarf-brood in the shed stared back, unmoving. It was the others present who seemed most stirred; the Hare's ears quivered, and the Ducks shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The wood-man lifted his face, tear-streaked.

"Hardness is not the only virtue, Gra'drach. Supple trees… ". He broke off, then tried again. "Supple trees stand longest. For her sake, for L'arien's sake, we need to bend with this blow… try once more."

The water-girl shuddered, but closed her eyes in acquiescence. "So. But it should be a mother, milk-flowing, with a babe of her own, and ready to risk both her own future and her child's for us. Who?" (A murmuring of "who? who?" from the rafters.) "Where do we find one at this short notice?"

"Here. You find me." The flat tones of the middle-aged female Dwarf-brood again. "No need for a babe. I tell you, we can bring on milk at need. I'll tell 'em that my child has died. They won't care – they won't ask too much."

Larissa gasped. In her eyes was a fear, and a shame, and a hope. "No, Moll. It should be me. I know that. I know it has to be me. I'm sorry… I was too frightened to say I would, but I know it has to be me."

"No. Remember - it was the king's love of a slender body which gave our Lith'en the chance there in the first place. Now, since they've seen what they saw, they will be looking hard and turning down any fair young thing who offers to feed the brat." Moll's amusement had a bitter edge; her laugh was short and grating. "No, certainly it will be just grab at the first old, ugly wet-nurse who comes by, this time. Not you, La'ssa."

"And Miraz?" a calmer voice spoke from the shadows. The man's no fool. He has already seen our plan in action – why should he not know that any nurse will be a danger?"

"I don't think he truly saw it for a plan," said Krimbin, "just… the rage rose in him at the sight of … proof that some drops of dryad blood still run in human veins. In sunlight… you know… . And if he had known it for a plan, he would have kept her alive to drag what information he could from her."

"Even so…" a tall keen-faced Dwarf-brood pushed forward into the light to speak, "… even if he doesn't think it is a deliberate attack, he may well understand that taking a woman of the people to keep this prince alive has risks for its affections. Never underestimate the drive of affection – the drive to _receive_ affection – in humans."

"So long as it _is_ kept alive, so long as it flourishes, good _Doctor_, I don't suppose Miraz'll pay much heed to the impact of one as little and _insignificant_ as I am."

"Ahhh… we are all too wise by now to call you insignificant, or to call unimportant the ability to seem so. But let us not rehearse old quarrels, but address the needs at hand. You can bring on milk, you say? Pardon me, but your body is not young."

"No need for pardon for true words, _Doctor_," again the sardonic twist to the word, "and though I have not high learning, I hope I have enough plain wood-wit to see to a flow of milk sufficient for our needs and the child's needs both. And you can rest easy that the sun won't wake any shimmerings in _me_. I'm as earthy-bound as any of my Dwarvish ancestors, for all the strange and Human blood in me."

Grattandrak gnawed at one thumb. "If things go with you as it did with Lithasrien…"

"…as it has gone with many others on many other missions - of course I am ready for that," she said firmly.

Larissa crumpled suddenly, folding in on herself and covering her face. Uach pecked gently at her feet, murmuring "We are all between the Lion's paws." Moll grimaced slightly at the words, then, as she saw Ashdreo's watchful gaze, returned to convincing Grattandrack of her readiness:

"Only a fool would think of endangering another life to save this _insignificant_ one," (Cornelius grimaced; would she never let it rest?) "and you are no fool, Grattandrak. If I die, I die. If it come to that, I will take _one_ with me, at least. But I have the best chance of us all to succeed. Give me the mission. "

"Then," Grattandrak visibly ceased his calculating, and came to a decision, "we accept. We accept your offer to take this mission, we honour you, and we leave you to prepare for it."

The words shifted the meeting abruptly back to protocols. Grattandrack and Krimbin and Sletha rose first to their feet, and most of the others followed suit; Larissa stayed huddled, her face hidden; the Ducks padded over and gently stroked Moll's feet with their beaks; the dark woodman kept his eyes fixed on her, adding deliberately to Grattandrack's formal words his own: "May Aslan guard you, and keep you from their eyes."

Moll kept her face stony-still. What had Lith'en thought of Aslan's guarding, she wondered, as the light had been choked out of her at the last?


	2. Into the Palace

**Chapter 2: Into the Palace  
**

**The last few hours** of night was a scrambled time of ointments and old words, urgent briefings, whispered advice, short farewells and things unsaid. Her brain buzzed with the briefings, words thrown at her by comrades, and by Narnians she hardly knew, while she drank the bitter tea, rubbed the lotions into her own breasts, and muttered back and forth with a quiet, grim-faced woodwife, old wives' words, long-practised lore of doubtful usefulness, but not to be lightly set aside in such a time, when every possible help was needed.

The woodwife's words pattered in the background, and to that quick low drumming beat Krimbin, Grattandrack and unknown others hissed urgently all the knowledge which might help her to survive – the palace protocols, the ways to get a message out, her best contacts in case of need, a backstory, to account for her convenient presence with no babe of her own, things to know, things to never show she knew…

And there were other words as well, from other comrades, softer, melodious, about how to best to do the task set, to raise the babe:

"Sing to him, sing very low the songs we know, before he is old enough to know you are singing."

"While he's asleep. Murmur the stories when he cannot know he hears."

"Bathe him in Narnian waters. Feed him fruits from talking trees. We'll find a way to get them to you when summer comes."

"Fruits given willingly and on the day he eats 'em, to have the true life moving in them."

Three threads of sound, mingling, interweaving, as she worked, and the night ebbed.

His own small contribution to the briefing over, Cornelius stood silent, sidelined, but kept a thoughtful gaze fixed on his old teacher. She had taught him well – he was truly part of the Half-brood community now. The stripling who had come seeking to join the Cause so many years before had been laughably arrogant, he realised now, with his pride in his learning and his paper proof that he was wise. But what good now was his high knowledge to the Cause? It was a countrywife, with countrywife lore, who gave them a chance now.

"There'll be a time for your learning, Doctor." It was Sletha's soft voice; like so many of the wood-animals, he had an almost uncanny ability to feel mood, and an almost irresistible drive to comfort the forlorn.

Cornelius smiled, and shook himself free of the melancholy which had held him since they had learned of Lithasrien's death.

"There will, but now is not that time. I will go. Moll…"

She looked up from her preparations; for two short seconds they gazed squarely at each other, entreaty, apology, respect in his eyes, but hers as unfathomable as ever.

"Moll, remember: the softness of Human minds; and they are driven by wanting affection." He fumbled for some right word of farewell, and came up with only an old banality. "Aslan guard you. Aslan guide you." Not waiting for any answer – and indeed she would have given none, though her mouth twisted scornfully in reply – he turned and left.

She returned to her work. Comrades began to steal away, as the approaching dawn made their gathering more dangerous; they left murmuring last blessings and advice, some offering her small gifts. Most she gave back again, with a brief word of thanks for the intention, some she stowed in a satchel, or her pockets.

Very few were left as the long massage and anointing and muttering of cantrips came to a close. She noticed, that Grattandrack, unexpectedly, had gone; of the Dwarf-brood, only bitter Barroggich still stayed. Sletha had slipped out, and returned with an old Hare who stood by, watchful, listening wordlessly until the talk of others gave opening for her gift.

"There, Moll!" the woodwife sat back on her heels. "I've done for you what I can. The milk won't come in for three days even so – you'll have to keep the babe alive with honey in water, as best you may."

"Yes, it rests with the babe himself now to bring down the milk. And yes, honey on the dugs – it'll come better if he sucks for the sweet, at all events."

The Hare shyly extended one soft paw, offering a leaf-wrapped bundle of honeycomb, and then dropped to the ground and loped into the early dawn.

"Take this, too, Molly – " Grattandrak was back, with a small, warm leather flask. " – no – " as she glanced at it dubiously, "it's good human milk, and not easy come by. It's for you to have seeping through the front of your apron when you're at the gate, and maybe to give the princeling a few drops of his own kind's nursing."

"Human? How got then? And will she blab, now or later?"

"Ask no questions, Barroggich – I'll tell no lies But it's safe, there'll be no tale-blabbing from that one. Moll, if there's trouble…"

"I'll not drag anyone else into it. Never fear, Gratt'ack, I have good hope to save my skin," she wound a long cloth around her chest, dabbed it with the milk from the little flask, and tucked the edges in firmly. "And if I can't – it's not worth saving. So. Ready, I think. I had best go alone."

Flet and the two Dwarf-brood were silent; Sletha snuffled at her hands; the woodwife was whispering under her breath, apparently for herself alone. No-one else spoke. There were soft croonings from over head – but it was close to daytime, and the Owls were nearly asleep.

**ooooo**

**Getting in was easier** than she had imagined. The city knew of the death of the prince's nurse almost as soon as it happened, and she was not the only hopeful applicant who waited at the gate. More than a dozen young woman, most with breasts visibly near-bursting with milk, stood outside, waiting in the cold morning, all poor women willing to put their own babes aside if it could only secure the future of the rest of their family. But youth and loveliness had been the mark of the last nurse; as she had foreseen, unloveliness stood Moll in good stead this time.

She was one of three pulled before the Prince Protector and his lady for examination, in the Great Audience Chamber; the wintry morning sun was just glancing through the edges of the oriel-window. Moll kept her eyes closely in check, seeming to see only the regal couple, the Prince Protector and his lady.

She was sharply questioned about the death of her supposed son; the other two applicants confessed to living children. One offered to nurse both her own and the royal babe, turn and turn about, an offer which was rejected summarily as showing no sense of the fitness of rank. The other was lavish in her claims to willingness to set aside her own child in favour of the royal child. "Let him, die, your highness!" she cried, "he's a nothing compared to the little Caspian! Ooohh, it'd be too great an honour, and him great Caspian's son, too!" At the mention of the name the Protector's face darkened alarmingly, and the obsequious would-be nurse was ejected soon after the leveller. True, there were questions as to whether Moll had milk enough for a hungry baby, or whether she would have energy enough to keep up with him if, as seemed likely, he became a strong and active toddler. But it seemed neither of these questions really troubled the two on the low dais.

"The child must thrive, though" the Protector mused. "He must _live_."

Moll thought back to the briefing, to Grattandrack's hissed words. "Miraz is already uneasy that the court suspects he murdered his brother. He will want the brat alive, for an heir of sorts, but also because it would be too much for the nobles if they believed he had killed the helpless baby. His brother – well, there were those who had had enough of him; he is not greatly missed, to be honest, though he had his followers. But Telmarines are not without honour. Miraz knows how shaky is his grasp on power now. He will want the babe kept alive."

"Indeed, your honour, my milk is enough for him; I've nursed six of my own before this. And little Rhonian was a fine and healthy boy until he fell into the well, your majesty…"

Miraz raised his eyebrows. "You say it is enough – but you are old, woman. How long can you nourish him? He will be hungry with your withered body as his only source."

"Long enough, your highness, I swear it! Long enough! It's true I'm at the end of my child-bearing time, but old trees ever give the sweetest apples!"

Miraz's mouth quirked, and Moll saw that this was how she might play it – she could be the quaint old countrywife, and let them patronise her for not having city-gloss, and not knowing court ways. Good! And…

"What does it matter, my lord, so that it lives?" Prismia asked winningly, and impatiently. "The child has had good milk for these five months and more, and if he goes a little hungry now, it will maybe harden him for a soldier's life in the future."

Miraz hesitated, then smiled indulgently. "I doubt he'll make a soldier, but yes, a prince should know the rigours of a campaign; he may as well start early!"

Prismia laughed; she had a delightful laugh. "Then for pity's sake, my lord, let us send this old woman to him, and let him begin to know how hard life can be!"

And to the sound of the Protector's hearty mirth, Moll was ushered away to meet her charge.

**ooooo**

**The babe was screaming**, and naturally enough; it had been nearly a full day since he had last drunk milk. Jiggling him was a scared-looking undermaid, who held a damp cloth, which she dabbed at the baby's mouth – honey-soaked, probably, Moll thought, Good! So he would already know that taste, and be the more likely to accept it

She snatched the baby from the girl, using a pretence of anger and impatience as a cover to juggle a small trickle from the little flask of human milk into his mouth. In a flash he was grabbing blindly for more.

"Ah – you see he wants it! Get out, girl, and let him feed in peace!" Moll fumbled with her apron-front, as if to give him the breast, then, turning her back managed indeed to hold him to her breast while dribbling a little more of the milk down it for the babe to suck, then smudging honey across as well. Then, more gently, to the still-lingering maid, "He'll do… he'll do. You get out now, and let us get to know each other." The girl backed out of the room, curtsied and closed the door.

The first and most dangerous stage was past. Alone, Moll stoppered the little flask, and re-wet the cloth, screwing some of the honeycomb into it as well, and pushed it into the grasping mouth.

She looked around the room – the nursery. It was large, with a huge, many-paned window on one side, and in front of that a small round table and several deep, tall armchairs. She dumped the boy in one of them, and continued to prowl and examine. A closet, thinly stocked with cloth and various child-garments – mostly black – and a few aprons and caps, for her own use, she supposed. A fireplace, with cupboard built into the wall next to it, and pots and pestles for brewing possets and such mixtures as baby or nurse might need. A small bag of apples, another of almonds, a jar of honey, and little bags of some grainy resin, for sweet-smelling fires, she guessed. A privy alcove, curtained. A small, hard bed – the nurse's bed, it seemed – with a soft nursing-chair and cradle, lavishly carved and gilded, next to it.

An angry shriek brought her back to the child; he was a strong baby, too strong to be easily fobbed off with the offered honey-and-water. Lithasrien had done her share of the work well, Moll thought, and wondered briefly if her heritage had maybe been from some apple-tree, or maybe almond. Almond-milk would be a fine thing to nourish a king, but for now, it was honey and water, and just some two or three gills of milk to last till she had her own.

Still, she managed to eke out the small flask enough to lull him through the first day; he screamed himself into silence on the second day, though she soothed his thirst as best she could. The milk came in early on the third day, and he grabbed eagerly for the breast, and showed a laughably smug face on finding satisfaction there.

It was hard to say which of them felt more sense of triumph at the achievement.

**ooooo**

**By then,** she had met her fellow-servants in the nursery. The girl from the first day was called Pidda, and her senior maid (though still below Moll in the nursery hierarchy, it seemed) was Dell, a stout woman of early middle age.

They had explained the scanty provision in the closet; it seemed the court had been in mourning five long months for the Queen's death, and now, as her child approached his half-year-day, it was seen fit that he – and the whole court – should leave that behind, and dress again more joyfully.

"And it's just right, too, see?" chattered Pidda – the girl had a tongue on her, once she had got over her fear of the new Nurse – "because now the year's going to be turning, and we'll be heading to summer, and that's when his year's day is, mid-summer, and then we think it'll be time..."

"Mistress Moll can see the year turn as well as you, Pidda; you'd best get on with clearing that closet." That was Dell, the senior of the two – closer to Moll's own age, in fact.

Indeed, Moll could see the year turn – but why, she wondered, did the palace date its mourning for the Queen's death, and not for the King's, so short a time before that? Dell might well have ideas worth hearing on that, and on all court matters; she seemed to be a stickler for the proper ways of the palace, But she was also not one given to encouraging talk, it seemed. Perhaps the time was not yet ripe to try to gather information, as well as insinuate Narnian ways into the prince's eager, grabbing mind.

Still, these two had been the closest to Lithasrien, in this place. So had it been one of these who had dropped the word into the palace stream of gossip, and put in motion the machine which had led to that trap in the Great Audience Chamber?

Or was it a chance perception by a courtier?

Or – the terrible possibility which Grattandrak had set aside without comment – had it been one of themselves?

**ooooo**

**ooo**


	3. Changes

**Chapter 3: Changes**

**The year had turned;** nevertheless, a bitter chill took hold over the next few days.

The great fireplace of the Nursery was filled with a roaring blaze; Moll reflected with satisfaction that although she might be in the most dangerous place, tonight, while the Cell met again in that draughty cow-shed, she was also certainly in the most comfortable. The thought instantly brought its answer: she was here for the Cause, and she had work to do. She was in place – now, to begin the work, to find her way to take the ear and the mind of the child.

"Sing to him", they had said. But sing, in her harsh Dwarfish voice? Perhaps she would get to that, but for now, maybe something less craggy. Amongst the gifts she had stowed away in the folds of her wrap in those last scrambling minutes had been a small woodpipe, and she took it out now, and began to play, very softly, an old and lilting tune. The baby's wavering gaze fixed on the pipe briefly, and then wandered away across the rest of the room. Moll played on, letting the tune begin to seep into his brain, and almost, even, to lull her own mind to sleep.

"Ooh, it's a change, isn't it, Dell!"

Moll jerked and the tune skidded to a halt. In the doorway stood Dell, frowning grimly back at the over-cheerful Pidda, standing behind her, well-laden with richly-embroidered folded cloths and garments.

"May we come in, Mistress Nurse?" Dell's voice was as icy as the night. "We have the new linen and clothing for him, and also for you, for tomorrow's Appearance."

"Appearance?" Moll had the feeling that Dell was well satisfied to know more than his highness's nurse, despite the order which forced her to ask permission to enter the room – an order Moll privately thought no bad thing, to be able to keep them out when she was breathing Narnian ways into his ears. "What would that be, then?"

"The Appearance. It's his half-year-day, so they'll be calling you for the Appearance in the Great Audience Chamber. You'll be wearing these," Dell indicated the smaller bundle of bright-coloured clothing she was carrying, "and he will be dressed as fitting a prince of the Telmar. And by the time you get back here, the room'll look more fitting as well. Tomorrow he'll be opening his own little court, as you might call it, with his own Gentlemen of the Bedchamber."

"Gentlemen? Is it a big occasion, Dell? Will there be ceremony?" Moll covered her perturbation, but wondered - what chance was this for blunders which might expose her?

"Big enough. Mostly all you'll have to do is go where they tell you, and hold him still."

"No rehearsal? or meeting with…" She caught herself on the edge of saying 'the High Seneschal'; she had been told not to show that she knew anything of how the palace household was conducted, the knowledge that Krimbin had painfully gathered, one tiny shred of information at a time, over years. "…someone who might tell me what to do."

"Ah, well, you can thank the other one for that! We had the rehearsal a week back, and they won't have another." Dell shut her mouth firmly, locking in whatever she knew about what had happened then, and whatever she knew about what would happen on the morrow. "I'll leave you to sort the closet, Pidda, and I'll be back in good time tomorrow, Mistress Moll." And she swept away.

In good time for what? Well, Pidda was left, and whatever information she could get would have to come from that flighty source.

"So, you think it'll be a change, do you, Pidda, with tomorrow's Appearance, and the Gentlemen, and all?"

"Oh, _that_! – well, not so very much I'm thinking, just the Gentlemen, really. I meant you, mostly, Mistress Moll. Seeing you sitting there, playing that pipe! That last one, she liked the music too, but in pretty well every other way," the bright eyes seemed to laugh, "she was your spitting opposite!"

"Every babe needs music," Moll answered cautiously. She didn't want too much comparison with Lisathrien – better that they all forgot as quickly as possible that there had once been a true Narnian in the palace. On the other hand, if she let Pidda's tongue run on, she might catch some clue as to who had betrayed her – or entrapped her.

"That's what _she_ said, but she was more for singing. She…" abruptly Pidda stopped, her face suddenly wiped clean of what had been a smile of delighted reminiscence. Moll surmised that the girl had caught herself on the verge of over-acceptance of what had turned out to be, in Telmarine terms, an abomination, a cross-breeding of Human with Unhuman. "Anyway, you're different from her."

"Aye. No beauty, you're thinking, I guess," Moll prompted.

The girl smiled nervously. She was clearly too much in mind of Lith'en's terrible death to want to say how lovely the wood-girl had been.

"A plain old countrywife," Moll went on. Human minds, Cornelius had said in his briefing, tended to believe what they were told; she would tell Pidda, then, what she should believe.

(Odd, to find herself thinking of _his_ briefing; she had never had more than contempt for his knowledge. But then, this wasn't from the high book-learning, it was from his years in the world of Men; grudgingly, she supposed it was no great concession to recall his words, and keep them in mind. The boy had his uses, after all.)

Pidda changed the subject. "That was a nice tune you were playing. I wish I could play. Does it have words?"

"It's an old Galman lullaby. My uncle sailed on Galman ships once." Grattandrak had plentifully supplied her with foreign 'family connections' in her backstory, the better to account for any difference they perceived in her to Telmarine ways.

"Could you sing it, Mis'ess Moll? It's probably about his bedtime anyhow, I suppose."

Moll frowned, but she wanted to begin to prise information from this girl, and to make her comfortable in the Nursery was the first step. Besides, she had been charged with using her voice, after all, not just the pipe, and the sooner the brat got used to her rough tones the better. Hesitantly, she began to sing, as soft as she could manage:

"_See far, seafarer_

_Vow now, voyager_

_Tread well the waves _

_that will roll as you roam_…"

She rocked the child in time to the tune. No question but that he responded more to the voice than to the pipe; his large eyes look up, unblinking, though heavy with sleep. She softened her voice.

"_Wonder not, wanderer, _

_Fear no more, seafarer,_

_Well the waves' cradle_

_will carry you home_…"

The child's breaths steadied; he was nearly asleep. She sang again, lower, and slower, and then a third time. The eyelids dropped across the large eyes, and the boy was asleep.

"Look at that! Oh, you've got the touch all right, Mis'ess Nurse. He's gone straight off!"

"Mmmm… you sit quietly, then, Pidda. You can fold those sitting here comfortably, and tell me all about what changes there'll be for this end-of-mourning."

The girl was happy enough to settle down.

"Oh, it's Mis'ess Dell who knows all that! She's worked here at the palace since this one's great-grandfather, she says. I don't know what'll happen in the Appearance, but well, it's the mourning has finished, of course," Pidda nodded at the bright embroidered jackets she was busy with. "and she says we'll be getting our proper due now. I mean he will be."

"Clothes?"

"Yes, but the Nursery, too; it'll all be done over, to fit in, with tapestries and that. _And_ there'll be the Gentlemen, too, three Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, like, to help him to dress."

"They will be here? working with us?"

"Oh, every day and all day, and getting underfoot, _she_ says." Pidda looked up impishly.

Getting underfoot? Or watching her too close to allow of her tales and her songs? She felt a brief tremor of uncertainty, unwelcome as it was unknown to her, and then forced herself back to the knowledge of her own unshakeable will. She was here; she had her task; it would be done.

**The high trilling of bone flutes** and a continuous jangle of timbrels escorted Moll from the Nursery the next morning. She moved stiffly, feeling not herself in the grand new clothes – clothes for ceremony and not for use, she felt, with an over-abundance of gold thread on the boy's little jackets and she herself arrayed in glossy harsh fabric which perversely seemed to rob her of her natural iron-hard self.

The musicians were all women, attendants from the Queen's wing of the palace – the Appearance, it seemed, was the ceremony which would normally have marked her triumphant return from childbirth, to present her child to the court. So much Dell had finally and grudgingly told her, while giving her the outline of what she was to do in it, as she helped Moll to dress, ready for the long slow-paced procession.

All the court nobility of Telmar – and a good few nobles who had come from more far-flung areas for the occasion – were present, an avenue of silks and furs and rich velvets, lining the walls on either side of the great Chamber. The High Seneschal was not outside the Chamber, but his underling was at the door, and told her, by glance and gesture, what Dell had already hinted. She was to approach the dais slowly, but directly, past the tumult of colour and luxury to where the Lord Protector and the Lady Prismia waited, not on the low first step of the dais, as they had been a week ago, but on the central and highest plane, in vice-regal mode.

There she was to give the child to the Protector, who would then hold him up to the Court for their acceptance. After that would be the naming of the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, then she was to receive him back, and move slowly around the Great Chamber, for all the nobles to see or to inspect or to greet the heir, before she and the Gentlemen returned to the Nursery.

She wondered what she might learn there, about Lithasrien's death, or about the weaknesses of her enemy. It was a divided court, Krimbin had told her. There were doubts that no-one dared voice about King Caspian's death; the bitter feeling between the brothers had been well known. Still, Caspian himself had been a hard king, reaping where he did not sow, and too quick to seize in the name of kingship what a wiser man would have left alone, and there were those who felt that Miraz might yet prove to be the more temperate leader, for the time of his protectorate.

**It all went smoothly** enough – so smoothly that she had time to note the sharp points that did not fit with what should be. For one, she did not ever find herself directed to stand against the great oriel-window; so it seemed that when Lithasrien had been placed there, in the rehearsal, it was a departure from the ritual – and therefore a deliberate entrapment. Krimbin had been right about that.

But not so right about another matter – she felt that Miraz had more feeling for the boy than the briefing had suggested. He looked with genuine curiosity at him, and asked eagerly after his well-being; Prismia was less interested.

"Does he do well? Is he thriving still?"

"Yes, your honour!" she was careful to play up to the role she had invented for herself, "he's growing like a little pig in muck."

Miraz raised amused eyebrows at the Lady Prismia, and in the line of lords behind her she heard a snigger. But Prismia's words in response amused him less.

"And well he may, since the piglet has fed on muck."

A cloud crossed the great man's face. "He is our nephew, my lady, and my mother's grandchild; he is Telmar's future, however nursed."

Moll feigned not to notice the by-play, but stored up one more scrap of information, to be fed back through to the Network: the divisions in the Court extended as far as the vice-regal pair.

The Lady pursed her lips, declining to openly cross her Lord Prince. She shrugged and remarked, "He will, I suppose be King one day," adding more sardonically, "and how we shall all rejoice when that day comes!"

"Oh my Lady, Telmar rejoices now, under the Prince Protector!" struck in one flattering courtier behind. She purred satisfaction.

Miraz did not respond, but held the baby up to the Court – the shout of acclamation sounded heartily enough. Then the naming of the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber – three lordlings, none seeming to be very senior in the Court. She committed to memory their names and appearances – Runan, short, with intelligent dark eyes, Arlian, who seemed a trifle bored with the event, and was certainly bored with his new charge, and the sturdy, tawny-haired Erimon.

The procession which followed, led by the three Gentlemen, to show the boy closely to the nobles, left her with less clear impressions. She did note that many, men and women both, were genuinely curious about the child, poking and prodding him, as if to be sure he was a healthy child – and even about herself, as the prince's Nurse, asking kindly about her history. Most looked benignly at him; some attempted to trace his parentage in his face; some spoke of his forebears – the two Caspians who had gone before, his mother and his grandmother, a formidable woman, apparently. A few seemed impatient, or even dismissive – she wondered if these were those who had thought that his father had been too grasping in his kingship.

Two men, dark, and so like as to be certainly brothers, both dressed in dark green leather travelling gear, were particularly tender in their homage to their little prince. One reached out and touched his cheek, the hard finger stroking the velvet softness more tenderly than Moll herself had ever done.

"Our little prince. We serve you as we served your father, boy."

"We look to your kingship." said the other.

Did Moll imagine the slight stirring in the air as he said it, she wondered? A wisp of unease, in the courtiers around? If so, it did not touch these two. Sturdy, shoulder to shoulder, self-confident, they stood out as being almost… Narnian… in air.

But that was all. She passed on, achieved the end of the room, and the Appearance was over. The little procession – she, with the babe and the Gentlemen, preceded only by the Seneschal's underling – the cluster of attendant women had mysteriously dispersed – returned in stately fashion to the Nursery. She wondered, as they paced, if perhaps the songs and stray whisperings – he was not yet old enough for stories – would need to be kept for the brief moments when the Gentlemen were not "underfoot".

**Back in the Nursery,** though, the Gentlemen-in-Waiting were not disposed to interfere with her work, overmuch. After the Seneschal's official had bowed himself out of the room, all three of the Lords visibly relaxed. Dell was at hand with jugs of wine and goblets, and the armchairs were waiting. They paid no attention to the babe, and very little to Moll herself.

An unexpected gift had come from the Palace kitchen. It seemed that one humble fisherman, an irregular supplier of fish to the Palace (Moll had no difficulty in recognising Krimbin in this description) had brought from "an aunt" a gift of "apples from her own tree", for the little prince's half-year day. The quaintness of the gift had helped its delivery, Moll guessed; she understood well, though, that these were no chance gift, but the living fruits the Resistance had sent to help build the prince's body, as well as his mind, into Narnian mould. Living apples, apples still sweet and sound from the tree even in mid-winter; apples from a tree remembered in the kindred – Lith'en's kindred? – as being of their own, though it had been many years since the dryads had moved and woken in plain sight.

The Gentlemen laughed at the gift, and selected an apple or two each for themselves, and munched as they gossiped. Resentment grated inside Moll as she saw them setting their teeth unthinkingly into the precious living fruit, fruit given at cost to the trees and got to her at no little risk by Krimbin. But Krimbin – or the "aunt" – had been generous, and there were enough for her to take away a good bagful, to feed the child.

She brewed a sort of mash from them, and spooned it into the boy – his first solid food, she deduced, from his uncertainty. But it went in well enough, and she felt grimly satisfied that her task could go on, even under the very noses of the enemy.

Her resentful glance had not gone unnoticed, and as they munched they commented freely, amused by her smallness, her ugliness, her surliness, and above all by her difference from Lithasrien – though they did it indirectly, in remarks to each other, not for her ears. It seemed they supposed that no-one of low status and low stature could understand indirect allusion; so much the better for learning what might come in useful.

"_She'll_ not likely be bothered with any attention from people in high places!" said one – it was the one called Arlian – raising delicate eyebrows.

"Nor from the lady…" Lord Runan half-sang, miming a pretty strum on an invisible lute.

Attention from people in high places – Lithasrien, she knew had been pressed more than once by the king, as his ailing wife lay bedfast, to fill his idle moments. But that had been months ago, and he had died, Krimbin had said, before things had become intolerable for her. Had other "people in high places" also seen her lissome beauty, and tried to grab at it since then? These men, perhaps? And what "lady"? The King's lady had been ill past strumming a lute before ever Lithasrien had come to the place.

She kept on spooning the pap into the soft, wet mouth, to all observation oblivious to the Gentlemen and their talk; inside her self, though, she was coldly and rigorously assembling each scrap of information, each thread, to twist into a rope to trap, maybe, Lisathrien's betrayer.


	4. Encounter with a Recorder

**[_Of course, I don't own any of Narnia! A few of the characters I've made up, but almost all the Telmarine nobility, and two of the Resistance members here, are from C.S. Lewis's work – I remain very grateful to him, for Narnia, and all his books.]_**

**Chapter 4: Encounter with a Recorder**

**Five months on,** and the nursery had settled into routine ways. The three Gentlemen of the Bedchamber came often enough, though the only conception they seemed to have of their office was to lounge into the Nursery and loll in the armchairs by the window, exchanging court gossip.

Moll found that even in their presence she could press ahead with the task, not just in the boy's feeding, but in rhymes and songs that laid the solid base for what might come later. The lullaby which had first put him to sleep she sang nightly to him, but there were other rhymes and games, such as counting-out rhymes:

_one and two and three and four_

_all good things we keep in store_

_five and six and seven and eight_

_and give again before too late_

Or, more gently – and much more quietly, too, because this one came to the edge of sedition – a song to soothe away fears:

_Small and fearful, how I long_

_for the beautiful and strong -_

_Small one, never fear, because_

_we are safe between his paws._

Or more livelily, she would bounce him on her knee, jolting and frightening and delighting him mightily:

_Horsa-come-horsa and gallop with me!_

_Cousin-my-cousin so strong and so free!_

_poundaway, poundaway, poundaway down_

_thundering thundering over the ground! _

(and here she would seem to let him fall, as the triumphant conclusion of the game.)

And there were many such rhymes and games – short, childish, seemingly inconsequential, but always, always to teach him the lessons – that wealth is to be shared, all creatures were his cousins, that the vulnerable must be protected, that all creatures deserve their freedom, that Narnians (though never by that name) were the true and free rulers of Narnia.

As well as this, the primary task, Moll gathered what information she could, for later passing on, when an avenue had been found for it. From the Gentlemen themselves, for instance.

They still paid little attention to their charge, nor any at all to Moll, save for the casual orders they would rap out, for wine or such light provender as took their fancy – orders Moll as often as not simply passed on to Dell or to Pidda by a nod and raised eyebrows. Their conversation was, as always, for themselves alone, and usually in a kind of code – more to avoid speaking court matters before the servants than because they had anything to hide, she guessed.

Some of it was the kind of petty tittle-tattle that idle Humans were prone to – talk of who had edged into whose bed, or tried and been repelled, of who had been appointed to what plum sinecure. Moll listened to it all, catching each piece, and trying to fit the scraps together into some coherent whole.

Thus, one scrap:

"Put it this way – it will be several years before we can expect _that_, since it's evidently not happening this year. So…"

"You mean that there's a possibility of … ahhh… changing the fashion in which these things are done?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Let us hope so, then!" And the Gentlemen raised their goblets in a silent toast – to what?

Another fragment:

"He wasn't ever interested anyway, I think. Now, the big brother…"

"Oh, she always was a fool. Still is. She's now convinced herself that …. ooo-ooo- oooooo" – and here a long wavering moan apparently substituted for some coded word – "are out to get her."

"Mmmm. Interesting building works happening out there."

"What?" The others went to join the speaker, at the big window.

"They're putting bars on the windows of the South Tower, just there where that big elm is in leaf."

And then there was an exchange of glances and sly grins.

Sometimes there seemed to be an edge of unease in their talking:

"So… what do you make of all these new Library appointments?"

"Oh, I don't see that a library means anything for us. For us or against us. It's just a part of the Castle."

"Not the library itself. These new Recorders and Noters, watching – and recording – all the time: who looks at what books, and at what Grand Council records, and _at what laws, _Arlian_._"

Silence.

**ooooo**

**Talk with the nurserymaids** was confined to times when the Gentlemen were absent. As before, Dell was the more guarded of the two; she would drop a few words related to the boy, or the day's needs, but that was all. Pidda's conversation was mostly idle talk, but here, too, sometimes Moll could pick up some of the gossip and news from the Castle. One morning:

"Here's from the wardrobe, Mistress Moll. We're to go into black again, the next four weeks."

Moll looked at the pile of black garments in Dell's arms, shifts and kirtles and aprons, and on the top, fine cambric shirts and black linen swaddlings, and little dark jackets of fine leather.

"Not for him, the little lamb, surely!" Moll felt a vague sense of surprise at her own indignation that the boy should be swaddled in black. Why should it matter to her what the Telmarine brat wore? But.. "He's too young to go into mourning again."

"Oh, he _must_, Mis'ess! The whole court is! And it's just for the month, though it's his mother's own brother is dead, poor man!" Pidda, of course.

Dell threw her a quelling glance, and added, "Shot with an arrow out hunting, which is a thing which happens far too often, especially to the young ones."

"And not often enough to them old ones!" chipped in Pidda pertly, to be instantly answered by a deft slap to her face, by Dell.

"What's the matter with _you_?" the girl gasped, rubbing her cheek.

"What's the matter with _you_? One word too many and we all could go! You're not in your mother's kitchen now!"

Dell did not expand on what she meant, and Pidda fell sulkily silent. Moll busied herself with the garments, but thought the more of what it could all mean.

**ooooo**

**Not long after, she saw **the new staff for the Library, strange, tall men and women of dignified carriage for the most part. They were on their way to the Great Audience Chamber, pacing down the sweep of the round staircase to the lower floor. Moll looked down from the balcony outside the prince's rooms. Telmarines, Galmans, a Calormene – she craned to see the strange fashion of a woman in loose, bright trousers – and… one shorter, stockier shape in amongst them.

She turned sharply and bent over her charge, pulling undone and then retying the strings of his coat to cover her confusion. It was Cornelius.

**ooooo**

**It was a month **before she could manoeuvre a way to meet and to talk with him. All she needed was a reason for proximity. However weak his over-human mind, she had trained him so far, at least, that she could rely on him to find a way to talk if she could only make her way into the Library.

She began by nudging the maids for information, one evening, when the Gentlemen had left.

"What's in the library, then, Dell?

"Books and parchments." Dell occasionally dropped the proper title, especially towards the end of the day; she and Moll were much of an age. "Looking to read, are you?"

"No, just wondering."

"Can you read, Mis'ess Moll?" Pidda looked up from her mending.

"Oh no, lass – that is, I can make my way through a book of cures and simples, if I have to. But I _don't_ have to. Moll knows most of them by heart, don't you worry."

"I'm not worrying, Mis'ess Moll." Pidda bit off the thread. "And you read more than me – I couldn't read one word in that big library, if my life depended on it."

"Your life depends on getting your work done and keeping your mouth shut," said Dell, from force of habit. She settled back in the big chair, and closed her eyes.

Pidda and Moll shared a glance of amusement. Pidda went on, more quietly. "I could look at the maps and the pictures, that's all."

"What pictures, then?"

"Oh, you know… pictures of the kings and queens, and that. But they all look the same really, so they're not worth looking at."

True, not worth looking at, but they served their turn, reflected Moll some days later, as she carried the little prince along the long gallery of dour triumphalist portraits running the length of one library wall, It was his year's day, and though whatever Pidda had expected to happen on that day had not happened, Moll had seized the occasion to supposedly 'introduce' him to his ancestors' portraits.

And as the pictures gave her a reason for being there, so her being there was reason enough for the short, bearded Recorder to keep close at hand as she walked, since it was part of his job to watch the comings and goings in the Library. And his keeping close at hand was a chance to get from him why he had come, and how he had come there, and to hear all the news of the cell that met in the cowshed.

"They sent you here?"

"Of course. _I_ don't look to put my own head in the noose. But an order's an order. Gratt'ak wants to be able to be in touch with you at need, and wants to hear how the mission goes; Krimbin heard of this way in."

"How long are you here?"

"As long as I can be. It's chancy. We in the Library are all under orders to watch each other for any prying. We can't meet like this often."

"Understood. Tell him things go well."

"Is there any information you want, any herbs or simples? has the milk kept up?"

"Yes. But I'll wean him soon, since he's come to his year's day." They moved along the row. "It won't be hard. He's a sweet-natured child." Then more loudly, as she held up the baby: "There, babkin! That is your great-great grandmother!"

"What happens after weaning? To you."

"I think I will be able to stay as nurse. I have made myself something of a place here. Miraz finds my _insignificance_ quaint – it amuses him."

Still the old flint-hard Moll, he reflected. Though she seemed – only in talking of the princeling – a shade, just half a shade, maybe, softer.

"I hope I can stay, too. The Telmarines… there is so much they don't know, but also much that they do. There is knowledge in this Library, Moll. They are wiser than we are in making roads and building… in many things."

"We build! We make roads enough! We don't need their knowledge."

"We may need it – they know warfare, too, and engines of war, if we should ever have strength for that." They glanced at each other – the Resistance was so weak, so pitiably weak. If they could call on Archenland, perhaps…

Cornelius shook his head, deliberately setting aside that train of thought. "And _think_, Moll! of what could be possible if one day we could learn from them, and they could learn from us. If fifty years from now, when this one is the King, and has learned from you to love us, we could all be living together peaceably…"

"Weak as a water-brat! There _is_ no peace with tyrants. And it's nothing if the boy loves us or not, so long as I can make him into a weapon to use against his own."

He swallowed the insult, to focus on the task. "Moll, their affections are _how_ we make him our weapon! They long to be loved – even to be liked…"

"As _you_ would know." Contempt was in her voice – for his ancestry, or for the years he had spent trying to placate her for a few careless words? Anger stirred in him.

"Yes, Human is stronger in my ancestry than in yours. And I think that is _why_ Gratt'ak chose me for this – that, and that I can pass more easily here as a man of learning. I am here as your support, Moll, like it or not, to help you keep your post as long as may be."

She smiled grimly. " I like well enough anything that shows me the way to my enemy. As for my staying, it's neither here nor there to Miraz what care the boy has, anyway, I think. But he's well enough provided, for a prince."

They paused before the next portrait, and Moll went through the same mummery of showing the child to the portrait and the portrait to the child, with words loud for the listening ears of the other Recorders, before going on more quietly, "He has his own staff – three Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, who do nothing but clutter the room, and talk castle gossip and secrets, and myself and two maids. The maids speak freely enough and I start to learn enough to know my way around."

They moved a few paces further on.

"So… that is how I do, and who I see. What news from Gratt'ak, and the rest?"

"Things go well, though it's still you are the linch-pin of our cell's planning, the plan to win the prince. Larissa has dropped out from meeting, but we can trust her silence. Flet is true. Krimbin doesn't change. Barrogich is… as Barrogich as ever. Ashdreo has put himself to travelling to all our other cells, collecting and retelling the stories of Aslan, and the Winter and all that."

She grimaced. "If that stuff was ever true… it's been a thousand years or more. What's the point? But all that breed are made that way."

"Gratt'ak gives it value. He says old songs and stories make our identity. It pulls us together, helps to make us _Narnians_."

"Pah! We have too much to think about and plan for with the real weights on us Narnians to worry about old legends. The value is, it keeps those ones working with us. He doesn't believe that rubbish, does he?"

He didn't have the hardihood to say what was true, that he half-believed himself. Those who had taught him, that secret time, had been at once so unshakable and so remote in their knowledge that he had never dared to ask them direct about this one matter. "He says that it's good for morale. And isn't it, at all events, exactly what you spend your time feeding to this one?"

"I feed him pap to undermine his will, not strengthen it." she flashed back. "What's fit for ignorant enemy children is not what we need to feed our own. But let that go. What else news?"

"Ashdreo heard from the south-east cell that they are back in touch with Archenland; nothing has come of it yet, though. The Dogs hunted near Beaversdam; they say that there is uneasiness there that" he glanced at the baby, "has not been Named. Sletha was in the forest when that lord was killed. He says it was murder."

"Assassination? That was this one's uncle! By one of us?" her eyes glinted.

"No. One of them, Sletha says."

"Good! Good! A private quarrel?"

"How would I know? You would hear more gossip in your nursery than I do here. It's not the sort of news that the cell would hear."

They looked at each other briefly, wondering, then fixed their eyes on the last in the row. "There, babkin," said Moll clearly, "there's your own daddy!" adding so low that Cornelius almost missed it "_and may all your line die like your uncle, and save Narnia the trouble of killing them_."

No, Moll had not softened, Cornelius decided, as he shut the library door after her.

**ooooo**

**She found Pidda** in the nursery, airing the new clothes by the fire. Moll settled down next to her, and began to ready the child for his evening meal – though he was still at the breast, he ate often, now that it was summertime, of the soft, pulped fruit of willing trees, and even of velvet-soft gruels and possets.

"No Gentlemen here, then, Pidda? They might be leaving us alone for a while."

"Yes, they might." Pidda was in a rare reflective mood; usually she was flighty to a fault, but tonight she seemed disposed to ponder why things were as they were. Staring into the fire, she ventured, "You know, they don't just come here to just sit and talk."

"No? Why do they come here, then?"

"Well, I've been thinking. They're Gentlemen of the Bedchamber now, but sooner or later, he'll need his own, like… knights-at-arms and things. When his father was alive, and it was the protector was the prince – you know what I mean…"

"Yes. Go on." Moll feigned absorption with the little boy, but was listening intently.

"Well, he had his own troop of knights-at-arms, like Lord Sopespian and all those. And now look at Sopespian, how high he stands in the court, like Glozelle. So _this_ one'll," she nodded at the baby, "be getting that sort of thing sooner or later. And there's always sort of jostling for positions like that, who's in and who's out. So I think that's why they're here, to make sure that none of them gets ahead of the others."

"You might be right."

So… more hopes centred on this baby. She mulled over it, idly, as he fed. The three Gentlemen, hoping for preferment when the more prestigious posts came due. Or did they hope for something else, something only occasionally glimpsed in their fragmentary, elliptical talk? And there were Grattandrak's hopes that she could lure the babe into being a sympathiser with Narnia before he even knew that Narnia existed, so that when he was king, Narnians could again be free to say who and what they were. Cornelius' hopes, that a new king might mean new learning, eventually, and new respect for learning. And her own hopes, that she could use the baby's own softness against it, using the Human weakness that Cornelius had pinpointed to wedge him away from Telmarine loyalties, and mould him into a dagger to strike the heart of Telmarine rule. Her weapons were tales and songs, and the appearance of comfortable softness, but she set herself again to be as unyielding in her commitment as any stone, thrown to kill.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

_**Author's plea:**_

_And that's four chapters done and dusted! Three kindly readers have reviewed what I've written so far – but I'd really, really love to hear more, if at all possible. _


	5. Leaffall

_**[Of course, I don't own any of Narnia! A few of the characters I've made up, but almost all the Telmarine nobility, and two of the Resistance members here, are from C.S. Lewis's work – I remain very grateful to him, for Narnia, and all his books.]**_

**Chapter 5: Leaf-fall**

**Summer waned,** and autumn mists rose from the river; along with them a miasma of unease seemed to be spreading, intangible, ungraspable, but _there_.

Although Moll could not have named who was missing, there seemed to be fewer nobles about the Court, as if they had retreated to their country estates. In a sort of parallel to that, Dell took to absenting herself from the Nursery, coming in and out as strictly necessary, rather than settling in, as Pidda did.

Pidda seemed to respond to the autumn by cosying herself where she could, and her conversations with Moll became warmer and more companionable. Often, as the days drew in, Pidda would sit in the Nursery, mending household linen while the boy ate his gruel. Once, gazing dreamily at the fire, she observed:

"It was sad, that, the Queen dying the way she did, before her six months' quiet was up. And the way the King was always nagging at Mis'ess Lillan, too. It all ended so sad."

Moll's head shot up – _Lillan_ had been the name that Lithasrien had gone by in this place, since her own name was so clearly not Telmarine.

The several months since had evidently eased Pidda's reluctance to talk about Lith'en – Human-like, she had softened the remembrance of the vileness of her murder, lost the sense of horror, and recast the whole event as some sentimental fireside tale.

"The King nagged at Lillan?"

"Oh yes, but that wasn't the saddest thing! She was always quick at getting out of his way, she had a quick way about her. She didn't have any trouble with _him_. No, what was sad was the way Lady Prismia thought it was the Lord Protector wanted her, not the King. That was sad, because he never did – any of us could have told her that Miraz never did. Funny isn't it?"

"But if … " Moll laboured to see the point of Pidda's comments; she felt there was some huge gulf between her understanding and the Human one, "if Miraz did not want Lillan, and Lillan did not want Miraz, then what is the sadness?

Pidda looked suddenly stricken. She gathered up the mending she had with her, and fled.

**ooooo**

**The Gentlemen, too,** seemed to be under the spell of the creeping chill and unsettled feeling. Their conversation was as coded as ever, ungraspable, too, elliptical, vaguely allusive to people and things and apparently huge possibilities unknown to the three women in the Nursery.

"How are things in the north, do you suppose? Any chance?"

"Oh, all things are _possible_ – think of the Passarid clan!" and all three of them laughed.

"Hope it _is_ possible for them, though. Rather them than me." Then a change of mood, and the one who had laughed loudest – Runan – pushed back the chair he had been lounging in, and went to stare from the window.

"But that's just the trouble, isn't it? That for all of us, we say 'rather them than me', and in the end, who will be left to say…"

And then no more talk, just three men, glancing at each other, with unhappy, irresolute eyes.

Another time, all three were present, and one of them, the one called Erimon, gouging with his dagger, for no reason at all that Moll could see, at the wooden frame around the leadlights, suddenly paused, and asked: "The brothers?"

And Runan replied, "Nobody I'd rather talk to – _if_ they were here. They certainly would be our best chance of finding the best way forward."

"Yes. The stars alone know why they insist on living out there in that miserable desert."

"Hardly a desert, Arlian!"

"No good-looking women, no decent music, no decent wine, none of the irresistible _glamour of the court__,_ Erimon… desert enough, I'd say!"

And again they all three laughed, but the laughter had a slightly desperate edge to it.

**ooooo**

**The boy could walk,** and was speaking more; his first name for her had moved from "Nuh-nuh" to something closer to "Nurt". And the ways she was teaching him had moved on, too. There were more than songs and rhymes, now. The child was old enough to hear simple stories, each of them to grind into his brain the basic truths of Narnian lore. Though these… clearly she needed to be cautious with these; she decided to keep the stories for when the Gentlemen were not there. Story, even the simplest kind, suited to the child's age, might run the risk of catching their attention, though simple-seeming ditties they seemed to discount as being too trivial to carry meaning.

So it was when they were absent that she now began, cautiously, to add stories to the rhymes and songs which were slowly but certainly edging him away from Telmar and into Narnia. Even with the maids, though, she needed to take care with her stories. Dell generally ignored them, pursing her lips as if to forebear rebuking an obvious waste of time; Pidda, though, relished the unfolding of a tale of Animal wisdom or courage, such as _Badger in the Siege_, or _Town Mouse and Country Mouse_ or _Thunderhoof's Journey_ – she seemed to see them as simple moral fables, and not realise the greater lesson they taught. Once, though…

"Once there was a giant! And he had two heads! And he was terrifying the land! All the people and all the good animals didn't know _what_ to do! So they went to the king, and said: "Your Majesty, help us! You're the king and you should protect us and help make this a happy land!"

"Take a thought for what you're saying, Mistress Nurse." It was Dell, very sombre, and rather more formal than usual.

"How do you mean?" Dell did not reply, other than by an expressive glance. That she left the Nursery at that point was perhaps signal enough for Pidda to take up the warning.

"What she means, Mis'ess Moll… you … you're a good story-teller, and you do the voices really well, but… it sounds like you really might be _meaning_ what you say, and then… well, a story like that, and they might think you're trying to tell the little prince what he should be like when he's a king."

Astonished, Moll did not reply; she had not expected that her companions would have jumped so near to the truth about her stories. Perhaps, like herself, the maids were more than showed on the surface?

After a minute's silence, Pidda went on, awkwardly, "They hate it when people take too much on themselves."

Moll gathered her wits, thinking as she spoke. "Oh, well, I'll not tell it, then, Pidda – but it's no great matter! it's just an old fairy-story! All the old stories have got kings and princesses in!"

She heard herself, speaking just a little too fast, and slowed her speech. "My grandma, she was from Archenland, and it was one I heard from her."

Then continuing in her accustomed slow, comfortable tones, seeming completely engrossed in folding the little shirts, warm from the fender, she led the talk even further away from the unlucky tale. "She always missed Archenland! She said you Narnians are such long people! That's where I get my shortness from – Archenlanders aren't tall like you."

Pidda laughed – she was not, in truth, a great deal taller than Moll – and the awkward moment passed. Moll took note, though – she needed to stay cautious before Dell and Pidda as much as ever she was before the Gentlemen.

**ooooo**

**As the boy grew**, Miraz began to visit the Nursery – less frequently, the Lady Prismia. He continued to take a distant but benevolent interest in the boy, and was pleased to note his growth and greater strength, his move to walking, rather than staggering. Then, too, Moll found that this gain in strength in the boy gained her a measure of extra freedom of movement.

"The boy walks well enough pushing that cart, it seems?"

"Yes, your worship." He gave her a sharp look, and she wondered if she was perhaps overplaying the ignorant countrywife role. She had, after all, been in the Palace for nine months or more now.

"Bring him tomorrow then, to the battlement next the South Tower. He can walk with me there."

**ooooo**

**That was the beginning** of a series of walks, always on the South Tower battlements, and Miraz came no more to the Nursery. Moll relished the escape from the silken-sheeted, tapestry-hung Nursery onto the good solid stone of the battlements; more importantly, she was able to gather more knowledge to add to her hoard – fragments, tiny shards of knowledge, that might be laid together to build a battle-plan, an incursion, a strategy.

Within a month she knew the layout of the steps within the South Tower, the small gate through the bailey, the room in the lower floors there, outside which the tall and lovely elms quivered golden leaves now. It was here, she discovered, that the Lady Prismia slept, in the room with newly-barred windows – why? – what was it she feared? Did the Palace have word of some lone Narnian planning an ill-considered assassination attempt? Barrogich perhaps? Unco-ordinated action, ill-timed violence, could unravel years of planning, could lead to the betrayal of the whole Cell. Prismia's fears, no less than the castle plans, should be passed on to the Cell, and thence to the Network. How she was to do so remained a problem.

**ooooo**

**With late autumn, **though, came another gift of apples. She felt confident enough now to ask to give her thanks in person to the fisherman-supplier. Their interview took place amid the bustle and clatter of the palace kitchen; with so many other servants around, she was not able to pass on to him many of the scraps of knowledge she had gained. Nevertheless, some real exchange took place, under cover of bland formalities.

Condescendingly, as befitted a servant of such high rank to one so humble, she asked after his 'aunt'; he assured her that the old lady was well and healthy, though she had been disappointed in her hopes of a visit from another nephew who lived in Archenland. The 'aunt' she took to be the Cell itself; the other was surely to inform her of more set-backs in the slow business – the business of another cell, but it concerned them all – of winning firm support from the Archenlandish King. So – it was a disappointment which drove the short-term strategies of the Network even farther into unlikeliness, perhaps, but it made the long-sighted task of her own Cell – _her_ task – even more important.

But the introduction of the subject of the distant 'nephew' gave her an opening for possibly passing on the knowledge of the division between the Protector and his Lady, so… "That is a pity; a house divided by distances is like a house weakened." she hazarded.

Krimbin was more skilled, more practised at this game, and moreover had his own knowledge of the divisions in the Court. He picked up her meaning, and played it back to her.

"Ah, Mistress – you are good to think so much for an old woman. She has the strong orchard around the house, to help keep her strong, though some trees are falling away."

The strong orchard surrounding the house must be the Telmar nobles. But it was the Lady she wanted to tell about, so…

"Tell her to be careful of pruning, fearfulness can make for weakness. A pruned tree – well, it might be attacked." with a slightest possible breath of emphasis on the words "pruning" and "pruned". Krimbin looked at a loss for an instant, then hid the flash of understanding in his eyes by an awkward bow. He had caught her reference to the lady's rarely used full name – Prunaprismia; it was enough – that one small shard had been given over, at any rate. He knew that the Protector and his lady were at odds – and that Prunaprismia feared some attack.

The rest, the hard facts of architecture and the weaknesses of the Palace, would have to wait. No matter. The time for attack, whether by stealth or in force, was not yet ripe; what her mind had gripped, it held, and when the time came, the knowledge would all still be there. She inclined her head, to dismiss the fisherman.

"Tell your aunt that the Prince grows well and strong on her apples. And come again – we would relish winter apples."

"Indeed, I'll try what I can, Mistress." and he bowed himself out of the kitchen.

**ooooo**

**Back in the Nursery**, the Gentlemen stood by the big window, gazing out across the space to the bailey, the South Tower, and beyond that again, to the elms and the small meadow and the river. They seemed to have exhausted their usual way of constantly circling an unstated theme. Erimon spoke, for once clearly, and without code. "So – the last leaves are nearly fallen. I should think that with that big elm dormant in winter our wit-befuddled Lady will feel safe again!"

"Yes, she's safe till it wakes again."

They laughed, contempt edging their amusement. Runan, however, added more thoughtfully: "It is not pleasant for the Protector, though, to have his Lady's mind so haunted by such baby-tales of murderous trees. And when he's on edge…" his voice wavered, "then we all must wonder which paths are safe for us now."

Moll did not puzzle over the question. She was too thunderstruck by the revelation of the cause of the Lady's fear. Not Barrogich. Not any lone Narnian assassin. Trees? A tree? Prismia was afraid of a _tree_?

**ooooo**

**ooo**

_**A/N:** Many thanks to the four kind reviewers who have pitched in to say something about this story; it's been a huge encouragement! And to any other readers: I really want to know how people are reacting to the story – the plot, the writing, anything! – so do review if you have the time (and inclination!)._


	6. The Rough Lady of the Western Waste

**[_Of course, I don't own any of Narnia! A few of the characters I've made up, but almost all the Telmarine nobility, and two of the Resistance members here, are from C.S. Lewis's work – I remain very grateful to him, for Narnia, and all his books.]_**

**Chapter 6: The Rough Lady**

**The leaves had all fallen** when next Moll walked on the battlements, two steps behind the little boy, who toddled, solemnly pushing his wheeled cart, beside his long-legged uncle. They had not walked long when one of the men-at-arms on the tower parapet above called out sharply, "Troop of horse approaching."

The Protector paused, and looked keenly out across the river, past the straggling town and away south-west; there was indeed a hint of movement, and a haze of dust.

"That will do for today, then. Take him back to the Nursery."

There, she found that the Gentlemen, too, were aware of the distant riders. Arlian stood at the window; the other two were seated at the table, where a scatter of nut-shells and dice showed how they had spent the time since she had left.

"In winter?" Runan was saying, "Who has the appalling lack of courtesy to make a call with a full troop of horse at this time of year? is it the Galman embassy?"

"Hardly, in winter. They may be uncouth, but they are not stupid."

"Ahhh… '_uncouth!_' " Arlian had turned to face back into the room, leaning against the window and smiling slightly. "Now who will wager me a pair of riding-gloves that that word alone can make it plain to us who is coming… given that it is a lady I see riding at the head, with an outrider at each hand?'

The other two leapt up, and Runan slapped Erimon's shoulder in delight. "Now our little prince will see something of the rougher side of life!" Erimon crowed.

Moll had never seen the trio so lively, and so unself-conscious. Whoever this lady was, her approach seemed to give heart and hope to the three – and energy. They left hurriedly, laughing and jostling each other in the doorway as they left. Some court beauty, perhaps?

**ooooo**

**No. It was not** until a day later that Moll was called again to the battlements, and there she found the Protector closely followed by three strangers – two men, and a woman.

In the intervening time, she had heard enough of the Gentlemen's scattered remarks – though their time in the Nursery had much diminished that day – to know who these three were: two from a large estate beyond Beaversdam, and a third they called the Rough Lady of the Western Waste, even speaking of her as The Rough, between themselves.

"Here, Moll!" Miraz called (as to a useful hound, she thought). "Bring your charge."

He did not mention the presence of his guests; it was not her place to notice or be noticed by visiting nobility. Nevertheless, two she knew—they were the brothers who had expressed such fond fealty to the little one a year earlier at the Appearance. The woman with them was so like as to be probably a sister – a tall, well-built woman, broad-faced and confident, moving with the free stride of one used to managing her own estates.

"He does well, ah?" Miraz to his guests, indicating the child, who stood sturdily, keeping firm hold on the wooden cart, currently his favourite toy.

"Very well!" said one of the brothers. Both men stood back, mixing their open appraisal of the child's advance in growth with respect and, as before, strong affection. The lady, showing none of the hesitations and delicacy with which most of the Telmarine nobility usually approached the boy, swooped down and picked him up as if he was – any child.

"It is a joy to see him, Miraz! I regret that the birth of my own brat, and my quiet time after, has kept me from seeing him so long." Her voice was deep, uncourtly, but warm and strong. "He must bring a blessing to the Court, as to you and to Prismia."

A slight shadow passed over his face. "Yes, he does well enough."

"And she? My lady? We had heard there was an illness."

"Aye. But you see she is well, for now."

"For now?"

"You must return in the spring," his eyes were on the brothers. "We may have need of more good company here then, for her better cheer."

"Better cheer? What has disturbed her comfort?"

"You have not heard? There was a vile thing here in our own court. I.." his eyes slid away, "I had it put to death. But my Lady… fears that some... some spirit of the thing, or its kin, might seize her."

"It was a creature of spring? Ah!" the Rough Lady pounced to the truth like a hawk falling on its prey. "This was tree-linked!"

"There _are_ no living trees!" Miraz snapped. But no-one had mentioned living trees.

Moll saw that all three of the guests glanced at each other, alert, eloquent of knowledge, asking a silent question, and coming to a silent agreement. Moll herself was aflame with questions: what did these three know? what had they perhaps seen, in the wastes beyond Beaversdam? If the Trees still lived… The Network must be told, even of the bare rumour.

"It seems if not living, they can die," the Lady was commenting, dryly. "And she would not fear, my Lord, if she had not some hand in its death,"

"She is more tender than appears!" said Miraz angrily. "_I_ was the one who ordered the creature's death."

He had indeed ordered it, so much had been known since Krimbin had first reported it. But this was new – that Prismia was also guilty, or felt guilt. And if she had not ordered the death in a quick rage, what other guilt could she be carrying than that _she_ had contrived that dramatic public exposure?

"But she is well now, and will so remain if our returning can ensure it," said one brother, warmly.

"And _this_ one is well indeed!" said the other, chirruping to the baby in his sister's arms. Moll noted how adroitly the two worked together, to steer the Protector from the unwelcome memory.

"He seems a fine strong boy – we look to his Naming as king! Will it be in the summer, for his year-day?"

"No, no… " and Miraz took the child from the Lady's arms "we will not call him king yet awhile. This little head is too weak for a crown, I think," Then, lifting the child over his head, "Do you want a crown, little nephew?"

"No!"

Miraz smiled triumphantly at the three guests. "What do you want, then?"

"Horsey!"

Miraz smiled. "We shall see. Moll, I think he must leave this cart for a horse he can pull, or maybe ride." He set the child down again, between himself and the guests, away from the little cart, away from Moll.

"Play horsey!" The unaccustomed attention from so many people at once was exciting the boy; he was growing wilful, demanding.

Miraz looked down with some distaste, and then across to Moll, sharply, as an unspoken command to make the boy quiet.

"Play horsey!"

Moll chilled. It was the old game he wanted. _Horsa-come-horsa… cousin-my-cousin…_ words he knew, words he could scramble out, breathlessly but intelligibly. If the child babbled, who could say but that one of these Telmarines would note it for subversion?

"Nursey!" his voice was rising to petulant wail. Moll stepped forward, but the Rough Lady was swifter,

"Come here, little man! Little king-to-be-Named!" She lifted the child up as Miraz had done, turning and moving him away from the Protector and her brothers, stepping lightly away with him along the battlements; she did not see, as they did, and Moll did, the deepening frown on his face at her words. The darker of the brothers stepped forward, speaking low, but urgently.

"Miraz, truly, it is time the boy was Named as king. Telmar respects your work as Lord Protector, but the time has come for him to be Named, with a Council, not just one man."

"The boy is young; you heard him say he doesn't want a crown yet awhile. And in truth, I think that after my brother's reign, a stable, strong Protectorate for a time will ensure that the kingdom is more fit for his kingship than it could be now, if I were to set about the Naming, and setting up the Council."

The other brother spoke. "The boy _must_ be Named as king. You have delayed past his first year's-day. You cannot delay longer than his next."

"Must? Cannot?" said Miraz, his eyes sharp and vindictive . I am the boy's sole uncle, his natural protector and guardian, Prince of Telmar, and Lord Protector of this realm. There is no-one to tell me '_must_' and '_cannot_'!"

_Insignificant,_ Moll thought wryly. may it be so today! She shrank back into the shadow of the South Tower, edging as best she could closer to where the Rough Lady bounced the child up and down, bringing him to laughing. May it be so, that none of them took any account at all of an insignificant servant hearing what were high matters of state, though spoken unceremoniously in the Protector's private ear.

"Miraz, we four have long been friends. We two will tell you what you will not know from anyone but us. If you do not begin now, to arrange to have the Naming this summer, there will be those who will say that you plan to harm the boy, and usurp his throne. You cannot delay longer for your own sake as for his."

"What? _What?_ Are you mad? Do you think I would harm the only son of my only brother? You mutter this madness to each other, and convince each other that I would _murder_ the child? Are you _mad_?"

It was so _sudden_, this storm of rage, this strange (conscious – surely conscious?) whipping-up of his own anger. In the space of just a few words, the Protector had become almost unrecognisable – angry, dangerous, lashing out. Seeing from her corner the suddenly darkened, swollen face, Moll realised she was seeing the Miraz who had had Lisathrien strangled before him, a year ago, not for subversion, but in vindictive unreasoning fury at her heritage.

Behind her came the swift steps of the Lady, back from the far end of the long battlement walkway. Without pausing and without looking, but seeming to know exactly where Moll stood, she thrust the child into Moll's arms as she passed. Her eyes were fixed commandingly on the Protector; with her free hand she gestured to her brothers: 'get out!'.

Moll backed further into shadow, withdrawing little by little from a scene which surely endangered all witnesses, even the humblest. She laid one hand lightly over the boy's mouth, and watched, intently, what transpired.

"My Lord.. my Lord Prince!"

The Protector jolted. His eyes snapped to the Lady.

"My Lord Miraz!"

He was silent, panting, a little. Then…

"Drinia?" He seemed dazed. The storm seemed to be ebbing, but there was an edge of uncertainty about him, as if he could break out again in fury.

"Yes, it is I. Who else?" She held one hand to him, back uppermost, as if she were approaching a wild dog. His eyes fixed on it, then raised to her face; he was smiling slightly. He took her hand, as if to kiss it, but he did not; he held it still, chest-high.

Moll saw, fascinated, that the Rough Lady was again, flicking light fingers in signal – but this time to her, to Moll. Without hesitation she obeyed, and moved further away, turning her back, so that she might seem to have been no witness to what had passed. Nevertheless, she listened; her hearing, sharp as a wolf's, had stood her in good stead as spy before this.

"Miraz, Miraz… my brothers had ever the way to stir you to anger. Be calm now."

"They chafe me too far. Such sayings step close to treason."

"They spoke in love, for you and for the babe. Indeed, we all have come in love here."

"I know it." He broke off, and seemed to try to recall himself to calm. "And you have left your own babe to do so." He smiled more warmly now.

"He must begin early to learn his role to serve your family. Another year or more and we can maybe bring the two together, hey, as you and my brothers were brought together years ago?"

He hesitated. "I think not. We four have a long history together, but time has parted us – they to their estate, you with your husband to the wastes beyond Beaversdam, and I – here."

"I cannot forget the old days, Miraz. You were all but foster-brother to me."

"But perhaps you should, my lady. I am more properly called Prince now, or Protector. I think you three forget _that_."

She raised her eyebrows, but took the rebuke easily.

"I hear you. You know I will obey you. But for now… you have terrified us all long enough, Lord Prince," smiling, so that he might see that it was no irony, but true acceptance of his position, "Shall we find this child, and return him to his Nursery?"

The brothers had slipped away. Miraz and the Rough Lady alone proceeded to the Nursery, she had reclaimed the boy, and was making use of him as a subject for light talk to the Protector; Moll came behind, carrying the discarded cart.

**ooooo**

**In the Nursery,** it became clear that the Lady had chosen to return here, to bring Miraz here, so that the three Gentlemen could serve as further distraction from his rage.

The talk was lively, cheerful, drifting from the dangerous topic of the boy's age and coming kingship to more light-hearted matters. Since the Rough Lady came from afar, there was country news to exchange; since she had been in the castle a day already, there were more recent entertainments to talk over. The chat went easily, and Moll observed both the fondness of all three Gentlemen for the Lady, and how cleverly she used them, and the banter, to convince the Protector that his outburst was forgotten.

"_These_ three, Miraz! Why pick _this_ drowsy boy to look after our little prince? Yesterday, he could hardly wake enough to show me the yearling he has bred so carefully." She poked Arlian in the ribs. He grinned. "I suppose Runan will keep him up to the mark, hey, Runan?

"I shall try my best, my lady," Lord Runan bowed, but cheerily, rather than over-awed.

"And_ you_! Why was not young Tawny at the pleasure given in our honour last night? I was forced to dance with this short-legged hound, and a fine picture we made for the Court, I assure you."

Erimon laughed outright. "My fellow-hounds will tell you, Lady, that to dance with me is to dance with a hound indeed."

"You were well off without him!" Miraz was back in humour. "He is well known as the worst dancer in the Palace."

"I believe it – he was ever an awkward pup. Ah, but the three whelps I remember have become three fine hounds—rather _too_ fine, Arlian. Do you not remember I told you that fine clothes do not make a huntsman?"

"Depends what he is hunting, Lady!"

The companionable, unmistakeably _Human_ laughter sounded oddly pleasant to Moll.

**ooooo**

**The quietness after they left - **Miraz and the Rough Lady and the Gentlemen too – was, after all, only the same quiet which had reigned in the Nursery for the twelve months she had been there. Still, Moll felt that in just one hour she had a new measure of what the Court could have been_, _or _ought_ to be – not a place of whispers and coded talk and half-voiced hints of unnamed dangers, or vague plans for change, but a more open, purposeful, life-filled place.

And so to her own purpose: to win the child, yes, but also to make clear the shadowy meaning of Lisathrien's death. She had two ends of the one rope, but in between, a tangle that her straight, blunt mind could not unravel. Prismia had contrived the death, spurring Miraz to have Lith'en killed. But why? Pidda had been clear that there was no love between Miraz and Lith'en, so no cause for Prismia to fear losing her position. And how had Prismia known that Lith'en had the wood-blood in her, or how it would sing back to the light of the sun?

This slippery, tangled business needed the mind of a water-girl to understand – or a Human. Even Cornelius – Cornelius would have some idea of how this worked. But it would be hard to contrive a reason now, in mid-winter, to visit the Library. Resolutely, Moll set herself to use the resources to hand – Pidda's ever-ready tongue, and her love of the stories.

She waited until Pidda was well-settled in to the Nursery, and Dell was absent, before she began one of the most complex stories of all Narnian folk-lore – a story in truth still too hard and complex for the boy, as yet, but calculated to lure her other listener.

"Listen! and I will tell you how once, long, long ago, this beautiful land of Narnia fell under a terrible enchantment.

"There was a Witch, far, far beyond the Wild Lands of the North, and beyond the Western Wild, who by long enquiry into deep secrets, found at last a powerful truth, and took from it a power for her own – she was able to take the life of every traitor and every liar, and twist it to her own use. Every treachery which happened made her stronger; every time she grew stronger she grew more beautiful and more alluring to Men and Beasts, and even to Trees, and Waters, and Stars.

"And so it happened that she was able to slowly gain power over the hearts of all of Narnia. Little by little she grew in strength and beauty, and first she was called the White Lady (for she was white as snow, with a sharp, hard beauty like ice on polished steel) and then she was called the Shining Guardian of the North, and then she was called the Chatelaine of ..," Moll paused… this long recital of the Witch's titles came from the story as it had been told to her, but to mention the Cair by name would be too dangerous, even with one as oblivious of matters of state as Pidda. "Chatelaine of a great castle, and then she was called Queen, and then Empress. And though she was cruel, she was beautiful, and all of Narnia fell under her spell…"

As Pidda had fallen under the spell of the story. She was listening with suspended breath, her needle held motionless over her work.

Moll went on, almost without needing to choose her words, giving the traditional descriptions of the White Lady, though her own family traditions had held strong to a different emphasis; all Narnians could recite the tale, though they might differ as to where it drifted from history into myth. That Narnia had been held in Winter, yes – but the rest was less certain.

"…The enchantment lay deep on the land… but still they held true to the hope in the old rhyme… she saw standing alone, a Boy, bewildered in the wild… the Faun entrusted to a Beaver his last desperate message, sent as he faced a terrible death…"

She broke off, leaving the story poised enticingly. The child had long since fallen asleep, but Pidda was entranced by the tale.

"Oh, go on, Mis'ess Nurse. Don't leave it there! What happened?"

Moll smiled, once more the comfortable Nurse, and no longer the intently-focussed story-teller. "Yes, I should finish my tale – 'a tale half-told is porridge gone cold' they say."

Pidda laughed, and looked up expectantly.

"But Pidda, first you must finish a tale for me, too."

"What's that, Mis'ess Moll?"

"You told me once that it was sad that Lady Prismia thought Lord Miraz lusted for Mistress Lillan – but I could not see that it was sad at all, since he did not, and nor did she want him."

"Oh, Mis'ess! But she never could believe it; she thought she had to get rid of …" Pidda stopped.

"Go on…" Moll prompted, but Pidda could keep some sort of guard on her tongue, after all.

She swerved in her story. "She thought Lillan was so much prettier – and she was, too, but Lord Miraz didn't care, anyway. But she didn't believe him and she thought for sure he would just leave her when he could have anyone he wanted. And it's sad now, too, because she's – everyone says she's not thinking straight about just trees, it's not like her…"

Moll brushed aside the question of Prismia's sanity now, to be certain of what she had done then.

"So she _made_ him see what Mistress Lillan was? She set her where the sun would strike?" Pidda nodded mutely, carefully. Her eyes were fixed on Moll as on some wild beast she did not trust. "She knew what the sun would show?" Nod.

"She knew he would kill her?" Another nod; Pidda was standing now and backed up against the door of the Nursery. One more question, then – it was a fine line whether the girl's rising panic would push her to tell, or to flee.

"And _how_ did the Lady Prismia know, herself, _what Lillan was_?" But Pidda, looking almost sick with panic, had flung herself out of the room, and was gone.

No matter, Moll reflected. The first part of the story was clear enough – Miraz had indeed acted in sudden rage, though possibly a sudden rage he had himself whipped up, but the placing of Lith'en in danger, the fall of the curtain – _that_ had been arranged by a woman driven half-mad by that odd unknown, jealousy – and _unnecessary_ jealousy, it seemed; Miraz loved, and had only loved, the Lady Prismia. "Sad", Pidda had said, but to Moll it was more… strange.

Strange, the Human ways – driven by the desire to receive affection, Cornelius had said. Strange, that Prismia was so driven that she was blind to the affection which she had already. What a horror the woman must have lived in, and must live in still, not to be able to take as any Dwarf-brood could take, stone-hard reality – whether she was loved or unloved – as fact, and work from that.

As for the other question, she already suspected, but she could afford to wait for hard truth. She could wait a hundred years and still hate.

**ooooo**

**She was called** with her charge just once more before the party from the west departed – not to the battlements this time, but to the gate which stood below the South Tower. Once more she showed his growing strength, his cleverness and agility, to the three; once more they looked with love and hope to the boy.

They had a gift for him, a wooden, wheeled horse, with mane and tail of real horse-hair. He could sit astride it, and thus thrust his way along the rough pavement; his quickness and delight in the play cheered them all. Nevertheless, some uneasiness remained. Miraz looked darkly at the brothers, and Moll surmised that they had returned during their visit to the dangerous topic of the boy's Naming as king.

The farewells were uncomfortable on both sides; it seemed, though, that the brothers would return, had been _summonsed_ to return, in the spring. If this was onerous to them, they put a good face on it,

"My Lord, thank you for your hospitality. Never doubt we will return when we have seen our sister safe back to her young bantling."

"I do not doubt."

As Moll stood and watched, the party readied to leave, with a general settling of saddle-packs and straightening of stirrups and trampling about of the accompanying troop of attendants. At the last, Miraz reached out and took the hand of the Rough Lady. He spoke, very low, and for her alone; Moll had to strain her ears to hear.

"I do not forget the old days, Drinia, but I fear they will try me too far. Bid them, for those days' sake, to change their counsel when they return."

She held his hand an instant; deep sadness washed over her face. "My Lord, they will speak and serve in love and truth. Was that not ever my family's gift to yours?"

"So." He dropped her hand. "This, then – take this as my farewell gift to you – no matter how close they come to treason, your brothers will never suffer death at my command."

The Rough Lady raised her hand to him – in farewell, or salute or acceptance? – and then again, to the unconscious child. Then the party rode away.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

_**A/N:** Thanks, o generous-hearted persons who have reviewed! I very much appreciate it – and would love to hear more, if anyone has the time, and feels like writing?  
_


	7. False steps

**[_Of course, I don't own any of Narnia! A few of the characters I've made up, but almost all the Telmarine nobility, and two of the Resistance members here, are from C.S. Lewis's work – I remain very grateful to him, for Narnia, and all his books.]_**

**Chapter 7: False steps**

**Spring brought **a further extension of Moll's freedom; she was permitted now, in the warmer weather, to take the little prince to the small meadow, outside the walls of the castle, but secured from any intrusion by the river, which curved from the corner of the Great Tower wall to the South Tower.

Here her charge could play under the three tall golden-green elms and breathe the sweet scents of grasses, and she could look across the river to the petty farmlets which were the last scatterings of the town on the other side. She could look, indeed, on the very cowshed where the cell was used to meet, though if this was still the meeting place she did not know; it had been the group's practice to change the meeting place and time with every change of membership in the group, and Cornelius had said that Larissa no longer met with them.

It was hard to look at the place where she had once consulted and argued so keenly with the comrades, hammering out, blow by blow, their thinking and strategies and desperate possibilities. She felt cut off from the cell, swollen with information to deliver, but with no way to deliver it. The keenly observed cracks in the ruling regime, but also the more disturbing news that some, at least of the Telmarines seemed aware, not just of the Tree-brood, wood-girls like Lisathrien, but even of tales – though denied as lies – of the living Trees themselves. True, it had been just those few, the Rough Lady and her brothers, who had flicked sharp glances of knowing to each other; the Gentlemen and the maids seemed to think it was nonsense to imagine a Tree could think or feel. But those few lived in the remote wastelands and distances; who knew what, in those far places? Could it be that the Trees there were indeed awake?

There was no way to pass on her guesses and surmises and knowledge, unless maybe Krimbin should come again, but she could not expect apples in spring. Nor could she credibly go to the library until the summer, when she might again make the excuse of the child's year's-day to once again show him the portraits. Sometimes she looked across to the farmlets – Goats and Dogs were of a size to pass as ordinary dumb beasts; it was possible – _just_ possible – that she might see Flet or any of the Dogs there. But the time wore on, and she saw no-one that she knew, no-one to tell.

But gathering intelligence, she told herself, was not her primary focus, and she set herself again to shaping the mind entrusted to her. He was of an age now to learn more words, and he picked them up easily, so in the privacy of the meadow she pressed them on him:

"Your daddy was a _**king**_!"

"_**Kig!**_"

"And a king must _**protect**_ all his good cousins!"

"_**Tec!**_"

"Soooo…." This first word drawn out very slowly, to make it a game, "show me your good cousin Horsey!" and the child would stumble clumsily, as a kind of gallop about the meadow.

"And…. show me your good cousin Sheep!" and the child would baa-aa-aa, and mock-graze.

"Now... show me your good cousin Rooster!" and he flapped his arms, and achieved a creditable crow.

"And…. show me your good cousin Eagle!" and the child stood up as high as he could, with his arms beating slowly and majestically as wings.

He grew more and more agile, more confident of his footing. He began to climb up the bailey-gate steps, for the return to the Nursery, though the Great Staircase was still too much for him. His gallop as a Horse, and his charge as a Bull became more recognisable each week. He was shifting from a baby into a little boy, a transformation she had never seen at such close range before.

There came the day when he ran, actively and confidently _ran_, across the meadow, and flung himself on her, with his short arms grappling around her and his face buried into her apron-front. It felt odd. Strange. She looked down at him, so trusting in her care, so unknowing of her intent, and hesitantly dropped her hand to the top of his head, and caressed it. He nestled his head in further, burrowing into her blindly, like a puppy after milk, with an inarticulate, high, happy squealing_._ Something grated within her, and she snatched her hand away.

Back in the Nursery, she bethought herself that a child running in the river-meadow needed to learn care – her work would be wasted if the brat drowned, after all. So… "You run about too much out there! Keep away from the river! There are _bad_ things in the river that might hurt you!"

He looked at her, puzzled, as well he might, since he had known nothing of hurt in all his pampered life. "Might _hurt_ you! Like this!" She slapped his leg, sharply.

His face showed utter shock – and not his alone. Dell and Pidda, for once absolutely alike in their reactions, both looked at her, astounded.

"Mistress Nurse?... Why…?" Pidda failed to find words.

Dell's astonished gaze gave way to something more appraising, more cautious. After a second's pause, she said, "Mistress Nurse, it won't do. That can't happen." Then to Pidda, "Don't ask stupid questions, girl! If Mistress Moll has had a trying day, it's because she needs more help in her work. Mistress, Pidda shall come with you to the meadow from now on – you're right that someone needs to watch him, that close to the water."

A false step. She had made a false step, and now had maybe endangered her whole task. Possibly turned the child against herself, possibly clogged her private times with him in the meadow with the unreliable ever-chatting Pidda. And no time to retrieve it, because the child, after a few breathless instants, had realised his hurt, and that he was right to protest about it, and he set up a screaming such as had not been heard in the Nursery for months.

It was the work of many minutes to quiet him; she held him close all that time, while he struggled and fought her. Yes, a false step. And _why_? What in the Lion's name had driven her to slap the child, and in front of the maids? But now was not a time for self-reproaches, now was a time for dealing with the present reality. She worked hard at it, re-assuming the soft persona, crooning to him, denying to him that any hurt had happened. No, no no, no.. be quiet, little one… eventually his screaming subsided into sobbing, into gulping and sniffing. And the hurt, after all had not been great. The red mark of her hand had faded. And so to try to retrieve the false step.

"I don't think Pidda needs to come to the meadow with me, Dell. It's just that the child needs to learn that the river is dangerous."

Dell had returned to her taciturn self; her mouth tightened, but she said nothing. Moll thought it best to make no further reference to what had happened, and began to ready the child for bed – washing him, settling him into his night-clothes, since the spring nights were still cool, and finally beginning the story. A story to underpin that she had acted for the child's best interests, to warn him of danger…

"Once upon a time, here in this very land of Narnia, there lived a Water-boggle, dark and dank at the edges of the river! And that very Water-boggle would slither and slide along just under the water, and if it saw a boy leaning over the edge, it would _snatch_ that boy, and carry him deep, deep down below into the horrible, slimy under-river world, where the long weeds grow, and tangle all around the children who fall in…"

But that way – if she told all the dragging, choking ways of the Water-boggles – led to things certainly too disturbing for the child to hear – or the maids, indeed; she hurriedly finished the story. "So: _don't you ever go near the edge of the river again!_"

Dell's watchfulness eased a little. "Did he go near the edge, Mistress? No wonder you were upset!"

"Yes, I was upset," Moll conceded. It was the truth – she felt shaken, partly by her own fallibility, partly that she had been shaken at all, by anything.

Despite her protest, Pidda did accompany them to the meadow for the next day, and thereafter. Dell's influence, she found, was very strong, and Moll was all too aware that she had need to rebuild some of the trust eroded on the previous day before she tried again to establish that time, in the meadow, as her private time with the child.

**ooooo**

**It was late in spring** that the Rough Lady's brothers returned. Moll found it hard to read the mood of the Gentlemen as they discussed the return. It was not the uncomplicated excitement of a few months back; they were eager, yes, but also unsure. They seemed to consider that these two, the brothers, could do much (what?) if only they so chose, but to be uncertain how the choice would fall.

"Pellll...annn..dorrrr." Just the name, said in a long, considering drawl.

"You have your wish, Erimon. You will be able to consult with him now."

"_If_ they come near us! They didn't four months back."

"I imagine that last winter The Rough was keeping them well in check."

"When have _they_ needed 'keeping in check'? It's because I trust them for calm, steady advice that I want to talk it over with them. And he used to trust them too – stars grant he still will listen."

"She may have thought that it was not politic for them to show too much delight in …" A raised eyebrow and a tilt of the head towards the little child completed the sentence. (Moll felt a sharp stab of impatience – after more than a year, did they _still_ assume she could not decipher their codes?)

"Maybe. Well, we will see how long it takes before they come this time."

It was indeed some days before the visit to the Nursery; nor did Miraz this time call for Moll to show the child to the two visitors – it seemed they were not so much in favour as they had been when they arrived in winter.

When they did come, Moll found the brothers to be very different from the Gentlemen. Their first attention in the Nursery was not to their peers, but to the infant Prince, and to Moll herself. They spoke to her courteously, giving her their names: _Pelandor_ – she noted he was sharp and decisive in speech and movement; _Morvan_ – slower of speech and more deliberate in manner.

They spoke to her not as equals, but still with respect, as to the person entrusted with the daily life of their prince. (Odd, that these two enemies should seem to agree with the Cell as to the significance of that task, while everyone else shrugged off the boy's raising as a matter of no great weight.) The boy himself they treated with grave kindness, and an unselfconscious homage.

They were different, too, in their style of speaking – more direct, not choosing to use the endlessly circling talk of the Gentlemen.

"So… how does the Court in your view, Runan? How do things look for the realm?"

"Oh, we thrive!" Arlian thrust in quickly, with a nervous laugh. Moll observed with some amusement that he was trying to indicate, with significant glances sideways, that she and the maids were there, in earshot. She kept her face in its usual stolid immobility; Pidda looked up, wondering; Dell quietly stood, and went away.

"Say on," Pelandor prodded, ignoring the silent warning. "Loyalty need never be afraid to speak."

Runan took a breath. "We had thought that there would be open …" he gestured the word '_division_' – "in the Court by now. Two whom you know…"

"Glozelle and Sopespian." Pelandor spoke impatiently. "That there is division is certainly known to all in the castle; you need not trouble these" he jerked his head to indicate Moll and Pidda, "with your subtleties."

Arlian looked uncomfortable; Erimon swallowed and said, "My Lord, such talk can be unhealthy."

"True. And so is going into battle, which I take it you three have sworn to do, to serve Telmar, and the person of its King."

They nodded, reluctantly, and Pelandor smiled. "And are we not now speaking of how best to serve Telmar and the person of its King?" His smile widened, and became a laugh. "Come, that there is danger, I do not deny, but I know well that you three are Men and Telmarines. I can rely on you."

They looked up with a dawning of resolution, or of a hope for resolution, in their eyes.

Morvan's smile was quieter than his brother's – a steady warmth, rather than a brilliant flash. "The danger is sadly _not_ of the open swordplay you young firebrands love, but you will face it with as good cheer as ever we faced a rough ride, hunting, I think."

Runan smiled back – Moll smiled wryly herself, privately, at these wavering milksops being called firebrands.

"Then to speak plainly, we three are uncertain. We had thought there would be open division by now, but there is not."

"That is because the season for diplomacy is coming," Pelador said briskly. "Miraz will want the Court to seem strong through the summer. So we have until the last envoy departs to talk together of ways we might best serve both Miraz and this prince. You three, and we two, and any others whom you know to have sworn fealty truly to this House."

"We will talk here?" Erimon queried.

"No, no… there is no need to hide from our good friends," his gaze swept challengingly and warmly around the room, to Pidda and to Moll, " what they know already! But we will not endanger any other with what is better kept between a few." He stood up, and readied to leave. "But understand this, _all_ of you: we have come to serve this House in love and truth. You know my family's irrevocable fealty here. We seek only the good of Miraz, the Lady Prismia, and of our young prince here, the hope of Telmar."

So. There was much to tell Cornelius, when she next saw him, Moll reflected. Prismia's fear of trees; the possibility that rumours of living Trees were afoot in the west – or even that the trees were waking; the divisions in the Court, including the naming of Glozelle and Sopespian – Pelandor had been wrong; she had _not_ known those names as significant in this matter. And in addition, the strange loyal plotting of the brothers from Beaversdam, and their – as it seemed to her, schooled in many years of work for the resistance – mad recklessness in speaking of their plans at all, in front of those not involved.

**ooooo**

**From then, life in the Nursery changed** somewhat. The three Gentlemen seemed influenced by the Beaversdams to give a new respect to Moll, and to the two maids as well, but they also were absent from the Nursery for long periods – she presumed meeting and discussing their plans with the unnamed others.

The absences gave her more freedom to work to bend, unnoticed, the Prince's mind, but she felt uneasy about the Gentlemen's newly-acquired courtesy, the new way of seeming to see her as a real person, not just a domestic convenience. It had been easier to work when she was beneath the notice.

She worked the harder at schooling the boy in knowledge of Narnia, and in inculcating the values the Network wanted in the King; soon she could begin, she thought, to introduce hatred of his own kind, with tales of their guilt and blunderings.

The absence of the Gentlemen she used to garner the time lost to her in the meadow. Since Pidda, whatever Dell's intention, simply took from her time in the Nursery the time spent in the meadow, Moll transferred her story-telling, in the main, to the Nursery. In the meadow, time was given to much more active play, running and rolling and pretending to be Thunderhoof, or Badger, or a Centaur – all from old stories, she told Pidda.

But very seldom did she tell the stories themselves in front of the girl. Pidda did say, hesitantly, one day, when it was time for the Prince to rest from his galloping and growling, "You didn't ever finish that story, Mis'ess Moll. The one about the winter, and all the land frozen, and that."

But really, that story was too long and too complex for the boy, and she had no use for it now, as a way to mine information from Pidda. So she would just bundle up the end of the tale into a few short sentences, she thought.

"Oh, it ends strangely, Pidda. The tale goes that though the White Lady had a just claim for the life of a criminal, she exchanged that claim, and took instead the life of…" Moll hesitated, but Grattandrak had been clear in his orders, brought back as a decision from the Network to the Cell – she was to bring this story, especially, into the life of the prince. She continued, "the Great Lion."

She wondered if the mention of that exchange would bring recognition; Larissa had said that the Humans had vague rumours and legends, remnants of a conquered people. But Pidda, she saw, did not know the tale; she was only now slowly puzzling her way to the conclusions that every half-brood child knew.

"But you said, when he came, the Lion, it was turning the whole land into Spring. So he was stronger than the winter, really, so why didn't he just kill the Witch?"

"She had a just claim," Moll said shortly and angrily. Because that much was true. The just claim should have been enough for the Queen to hold power. The nonsensical fable which followed was unjust, and must have covered up – she didn't know what.

"But he was the one who had already stopped the winter, and she killed him, instead of the criminal, but he hadn't done anything? And he let her?"

Moll felt anger again, grating inside her. She wanted to snarl, that it was all a lie and a fairytale for weak minds, but she was trapped. It was her whole task and mission to sway one weak mind into believing such stuff, and for all that the boy seemed drowsy in his fragrant grass nest, she knew well that his mind was awake – that any careless word in his hearing could spoil her many months of work; it had been a near thing after her first mis-step.

"Yes, that's right, the Great Lion brought the spring, even in the middle of the cruel winter. But that's enough of that now! Let the boy sleep!"

Pidda's eyes were rebellious – the closest Moll had seen in her to independent thinking – but for now, she didn't argue.

**ooooo**

"**Glozelle? This is an unexpected visit**, to our quiet corner!" All three Gentlemen – and Dell as well – looked startled. For Moll, Glozelle was just the name remembered, but it seemed that to others his new presence in the Nursery was more significant.

"Why may I not come to visit the Prince, as well as our friends from the west?" Glozelle smiled, adding with emphasis, "_who have been with you much of late_."

"We enjoy their company. We were young men and learnt to ride when they were Masters of the King's Horse here." Arlian replied. Moll noted the hint of defensiveness in his voice.

"You are young men yet." Glozelle smiled again, with what Moll judged genuine amusement. "So," seating himself on the edge of the table, "what have they been saying, our friends from the West?"

"Nothing… news from their sister, of their young nephew, of the hunting."

"Ah yes… news from the West… they are quite cut off there from Court life, from the real needs of the Kingdom, are they not?"

"How so?" asked Runan, warily.

"Oh, in various ways." Glozelle began to toy with the bowl of walnuts on the table, picking the nuts up, tossing them, and catching them on the back of his hand, first one, then two, then three. "The Kingdom, as you know, was left in no very stable state when Caspian died. He was a fine Prince, but not so good a King."

"True…" said Erimon.

"The Kingdom needs a strong hand now, to guide it through…" Glozelle was speaking slowly, and compellingly, but looking only at the single walnut he was balancing now on the back of one hand.

"Until this one is named King," interjected Runan.

Glozelle suddenly snapped his hand down, catching the nut as it fell, clenching it in his fist. He spoke quickly and sharply. "Our friends from the West have spoken much to you, I think! They speak a great deal, and perhaps too much." He paused, and recovered his calm a little. "I think they offer too much advice to Lord Miraz."

Runan spoke very carefully. "My Lord Miraz is the Lord Protector; his duty is to protect this Prince and bring him to Kingship; the brothers will be speaking to support him in that."

"Lord Miraz is Protector of the Kingdom, Runan, not just of this prince. We will all do well to remember that."

There was no answer. Glozelle moved to where the boy was playing, pulling at the mane of his wooden horse. He looked down at him for a half-minute, slowly picking the nut-meat from the shattered shell and nibbling at it. He looked up again to the three silent Gentlemen, blandly.

"He's a fine Prince. Like his father."

**ooooo**

_**A/N:** Thank you all so much for the reviews and the feedback! Please keep telling me – it really helps, and I like to know where I'm losing people's interest, too, or where I strike a false note._

_A couple of people have asked (warily? :) ) how long and far this story is projected to run. I'm thinking now that we're about half-way through, that it is just the story of this mission of Moll's with Caspian, and will end when that mission ends. Of course, I can see lots of other possible stories of the Resistance in action!_


	8. In Greenroof

**[**_**Of course, I don't own any of Narnia! A few of the characters I've made up, but almost all the Telmarine nobility, and two of the Resistance members here, are from C.S. Lewis's work – I remain very grateful to him, for Narnia, and all his books.]**_

**Chapter 8: In Greenroof**

**Summer **– Greenroof, her family's name for it had been. The elms were now welcome shade for the little one, playing, and for Pidda, who had the task now, of running after him whenever he strayed too far from the little daily encampments Moll made, and for Moll herself, watching, and patiently feeding his mind, bit by bit, with Narnia, while she counted the days until she could share her information.

The child was no trouble, easily amused and grabbing eagerly at any suggestion for his play, running or pretending to be the heroes of his stories or dancing to the music of her old pipe. Pidda was more nuisance, asking too often for more detail and yet more of the same hackneyed old tale, of the Lion and the White Lady, and the Stone Table. It seemed to have caught her mind, as it caught those of so many part-Human Half-brood – she supposed because it was a Human who escaped justice.

In the Nursery she could rely on Dell's curt suppression of such talk – "You don't need to know that faradiddle, girl! And the less you know, the less hurt you'll do!"

But here, in the meadow, under the green and spreading branches … while Caspian played, she was forced to at least hear Pidda's persistent queries.

"That story… the boy was a criminal, you said?"

"Yes. And go and watch this one – he's getting too close to the water's edge."

Pidda went, and came back holding the child's hand.

"What did he do wrong?"

"Never you mind. She had a just claim! His life was forfeit."

"Tell me about the Lion, then."

"There's nothing to tell. It's just what I've said before," The words were dragged out of her. "He was beautiful and strong." The child looked up, his attention caught by familiar words. Furious, she added, "But so was she!"

"But he was stronger…"

The days dragged.

**ooooo**

**At last, midsummer, **when she could take the child to the Library. It was harder, of course it was harder, than it had been the year before, because the child was now two years old, conscious, lively, babbling with questions, and with his own lively thoughts. She had to impress on him very earnestly that the Library was a place for quiet, for not talking too much, where the learned scholars read big books all day.

Cornelius – she felt a slight jarring that in the boy's eyes _he_ would be seen as one of the "learned scholars", and that it was her own words which were thus adding to his absurd self-consequence. Nevertheless, she conceded, he had had the wit to be closest to the door as they entered, and so to be the assigned Watcher and Recorder for her visit. Closely shadowed by him, she began the slow inspection of the ancestral portraits.

"There, child! This is the first of your line to reign as King here."

"Why?"

"Oh, that's a long story. I'll tell you that story later. Why don't you show me the ship in the picture?"

And as the little boy stood looking up earnestly, she added, for Cornelius alone, "There is much for you to hear. The divisions in the court fall between those who would see this one Named as king now, which includes one powerful family from the west, and those who do not want that. Take these names: Pelandor, Morvan from beyond Beaversdam; Glozelle and Sopespian among Miraz' retinue here." No need to tell him what to do with the names; she knew he was alert and intelligent, and would research, even in the very Library itself, and pass on the information.

"There! there the ship!"

"Yes! Good boy! Now this is his son, Glamorn. Is there a ship in that painting?" and in her former rapid, low tone, "Both sides want to influence Miraz; he is weak and malleable, moved by passions. His Lady also; she is going mad; she believes Lith'en's spirit haunts the elms outside her window."

"Not got ship!"

"That's right! There's _no_ ship in this painting! What has King Glamorn got in _his_ painting?"

"Horsey?"

"Yes! Can you gallop very, very quietly to the end of this gallery and back to me?" It was taking a risk, but she needed longer than fragments of time to pass on the Cornelius the technical details – the entries and exits to the South Tower and the bailey-gate, accessible from the river. By the time the child was back, galloping at least without whoops or shrieks, if not quietly, she had passed on those details.

"Now… King Caspian the Sixth's daughter, the Lady Miraspia! She has a very strange hat! What is that in her hat?"

"Feather!"

"A great, _big_ feather! How big was the bird that came from, do you think? Stretch up and show me!"

"Do you tell the child the histories of these?" muttered Cornelius, wryly; Miraspia was wearing a battle-helmet.

"Not yet… not yet!" She smiled, savagely, "Never fear; I will before I'm through. But don't waste time. I have more to tell."

"Unkah?"

"No, that is not your uncle, though he looks like him. That man was called Caspian the _Seventh!_ Look what is behind him!"

"House?"

"Yes, it is this very house! This _castle_!" The boy looked doubtful. "Say it, Caspian. Say 'castle'."

"Castle."

"Good." She pulled across a chair and stood the boy on it; the picture, indeed, was more of the castle and the land surrounding it than it was of the king, who was posed, seeming in fact somewhat superfluous, before a lavish landscape. "Now you look _very_ closely at the castle, and soon I will ask you a question! Cornelius…" They were now far from any possible hearer, but she dropped her voice lower still, "_The family from the West know something of the Living Trees._ I don't know what, but they know something. We must find out – tell Grattandrack. The western Cell. It may be that the trees are waking. Whatever it is, we must find out what they know, and what it means. Further, they plot in secret, and recruit the young Lordlings who were Named to the Nursery" Cornelius nodded, "but claim loyalty to Miraz and to Telmar. They plot badly; they are undisciplined and soft; I cannot tell how the divisions will end, but I cannot believe they have the training to work patiently and cunningly for change."

As Cornelius did; the glance between them acknowledged the months which they had spent together ensuring that.

"That is all your news?"

"The most urgent. I have a thought, but your news first." Then to the boy, "Well, have you finished looking at the Castle?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, stay on the chair! I want you to find for me _all_ the animals and birds in that picture!"

Then, seeing the boy absorbed in this new task, solemnly pondering the great painted panel, she looked questioningly at Cornelius.

"Yes, I have news, too. We may not be able to talk like this soon – they are skilled indeed in building; they have built changes now within the castle, so that whispering can be carried to Listeners here. They have put subtle pipes and boards, such that funnel sounds back into listening tubes. Already I have acted as Recorder for voices in the Great Audience Chamber, and in the Gatehouse, and the Guestrooms. They listen to the Ambassadors. I fear soon they will listen in this Library too."

She nodded. One look at his face when she next came would show her if it was safe to talk or not.

"I know of your Glozelle. He has recently been made Commander of the Castle Guard, and I suspect has Miraz' private ear in matters of state. He was Recorded yesterday, speaking with the Calormene Ambassador. I was not on duty, so I cannot say what was said, but something is afoot. Be wary if he comes to the Nursery.

"About the Living Trees. I do not believe they are awake. They may Live, still, though. Moll, I have never spoken of this…"

"Nursey?" She bit back fiercely the furious exclamation which rose at the interruption. But the child also was her task, and it would not do to have him shrieking for her. She bent her attention to him, as he proudly pointed out the Swans on the river, the sheep and goats on the open farmland, the dogs and horses of the minuscule hunting party, painted as returning at midday, triumphant, with a Deer slung across the withers of one horse. She showed him the tiny brushstrokes which indicated Otters in the river, and high, high above the castle, the singing Birds…

Another Recorder approached, and murmured to Cornelius, who left without a further glance at her. The contact was over. Whatever Cornelius had been about to tell her, the ideas she had to share with him, must be left untold.

**ooooo**

**It was not long after **that she was called to bring the child to the gathering of the Court for the formal reception of the Ambassador from Calormen; he had in fact arrived some days before. Dell had brought the usual bright, heavily embroidered clothes – embroidered heavy silks for a major reception, embossed and coloured leather for a lesser one, she had found; it was not the first time a full Court assembly had been called since Moll had been in the castle, though the first in this summer season of embassies and envoys. The boy had been dressed, and impressed with the solemnity of the occasion. He behaved well enough, well enough that Moll was able to stand and observe the proceedings.

Miraz stood below the empty dais, presumably to welcome the Ambassador without appearing to assert authority over him. Close behind his right shoulder stood the man Glozelle, who had visited the Nursery several weeks earlier; he had not been in such a prominent position in earlier Court gatherings, and she surmised it reflected his growing influence with the Protector. The three Gentlemen were also present among the crowd of Court nobles, and the two brothers, Pelandor and Morvan – none of them in a position of distinction.

As the Ambassador and his small retinue paced into the Chamber, Miraz drew himself up, and extended one hand,, rather formally, to gesture at the light, streaming through the great oriel window.

"How fitting that it is a day of glorious sunshine today! For truly, the sun is not more welcome to us than you, Azneeth Tarkaan. We welcome you to our Court, Ambassador, and trust that your stay here, and your journey through our lands, will be a pleasant one."

"I am grateful indeed, my Lord Miraz; and express to you the favour and benevolent aspect of my Master, the exalted Tisroc, may he live forever. We are well-satisfied to be here; when the mighty extend the hand of gentleness to the low, all watchers must admire."

Which left it nicely balanced, Moll thought sourly, as to whether the hand of gentleness was extended by Miraz to his guest, or by the Tisroc to Miraz. But the Ambassador was continuing with his speech.

"The Lord Miraz's rule is well-known in the courts of the Tisroc, may he live forever, to be beneficent and discerning…."

He was interrupted by a clear, warm voice. "Your pardon, Lord Ambassador! The Lord Miraz will tell you that he does not _rule_ here, he _protects_, and waits only to establish the rule of this, our Prince."

The frown was not on Miraz' face alone. Moll recalled Pidda's words about the Court: "They don't like people who take too much on themselves."

Glozelle stepped forward – so he had indeed risen high in the Court, to 'take it on himself' to speak. "You and your brother must pick a more suitable time for this. It is not fitting that men speak on private matters in such a place and at such a time."

Pelandor brushed him aside, speaking directly to the Protector: "My Lord Miraz, we speak not just as ourselves, but also as those who would see justice done in Narnia, to this young Prince, and to all those who live in this land, be they Human or those strange cross-creatures which you have encountered."

"Encountered, Pelandor?" Miraz was alert; his eyes narrowed.

"My Lord, I believe you yourself told us of one such, killed in this very Chamber?"

"_Strange cross-creatures?_ You fantasize, Pelandor." His jaw was clenched, and he began to breath more heavily.

"My Lord Miraz! My Lady is somewhat disordered yet from her distress at that scene, I think. Is that not enough to show that things are amiss in this land?"

"Dis-ord-er-ed?" The words seemed ground out, not spoken.

"Lord Miraz, forgive if I say what I should not before this guest, but all men know…"

"_What_ do all men know, Pelandor?"

One quick, glance to his brother, who stood rocklike at his side, and Pelandor began to speak, not loudly, but urgently.

"All men know that it was a cruelty and an injustice which has distressed my Lady; and all men know that _that_ injustice reflects _this_ injustice here, that the two-years child has not yet been Named. Injustice does not hurt only the oppressed, not only the suddenly killed cross-creature, or the child here. My Lord, injustice _damages_ the land in which it happens – it damages, my Lord, the one who…"

"My Lord, they speak treason." Glozelle – sharp, quick, triumphant. He looked meaningly to Miraz.

"Not treason, Glozelle." The Protector's face not swollen and dark with rage as she had seen it six months earlier, but cold and set; he seemed to be looking at the brothers from a long way away. "We cannot believe treason of our oldest friends." But his face did not show friendship.

Moll would have given much to know was this a set play between Miraz and Glozelle; had they conspired together which would say what? The words had a certain rigidity to them which suggested that.

The brothers certainly were not in the conspiracy, if conspiracy it was. Pelandor started forward eagerly, his eyes alight with joy. "No, never treason, Lord Miraz! My brother and I would give our lives for your well-being."

Morvan stood without moving; he paused before speaking. "We do value that friendship more highly than our lives, Lord. It is because of that friendship that we speak today."

Miraz turned away, as if he were addressing Glozelle, but his eyes flicked, Moll noted, to the Calormene Ambassador.

"Not treason. This is a tragedy, and a great sorrow to us, as it will be a great sorrow to all those who wish us well." Then turning formally, courteously, to the Calormene:

"My Lord Ambassador, forgive this sad upheaval and disruption of your visit. These men, once valued friends of mine, have sadly fallen into frenzy of mind."

Pelandor took one hasty step back – his eyes showed uncertainty, and the joy dying from his face. His brother gripped his forearm, in a quick, steadying grip.

Miraz looked once more on them, more distantly and coldly than Moll could have believed from any Human. He raised his voice for the whole Court to hear. "These are _**madmen**_."

It was as if the coldness had frozen them all. No-one moved; almost it seemed no-one breathed. Then Miraz raised his voice again, and the coldness began to fracture and give way to his self-made fury:

"Well? _Well_, guards? Do you leave your young Prince _unprotected_ in the presence of madmen?"

Several among the guards glanced quickly, uncertainly to each other, then moved, some to form a solid wall which came between the brothers and Moll, some... she could not see. She could only hear Miraz' rising voice, and the sounds of a scuffle beginning, and a desperate shout…

"My Lord, you damage this land…!"

"_Silence_ that raving! Take them! Chain them! Gag them! There! there!… the madness gives them strength! More guards! More chains!"

Then just the sound of panting, and a voice straining to break through a gag, and the clanking of chains, and a terrible dragging away.

"Get them below. We will dispose them in some safe place in our realm at our leisure."

The guards moved again. The brothers had gone. Speaking not to anybody now, seemingly to the open space cleared in front of him, Miraz went on. "They shall have the best of care. They were ever close to our heart. They shall have the best of care."

His face had collapsed back into nullity – neither the icy rigidity nor the livid anger showed now; instead he seemed to be looking, with a sort of troubled disappointment, into a vast emptiness. Glozelle moved closer to him, and seemed about to speak, when a smooth, calm voice broke the silence.

"My Lord!" It was the Ambassador. "My Lord Miraz. Believe me, we sorrow with you at this hard necessity; my Master, the inestimable and most potent Tisroc, may he live forever, will feel for you as a Father for a Son. How hard it is, as the poet says, to see the brand descend on the well-beloved flesh, but canker must be burned from the diseased body."

Miraz dragged his eyes back from gazing at nothingness, and seemed to be attempting to understand the Ambassador's words.

"It is a sorrow to us, excellent Monarch, to have disrupted your court at such a time. We feel indeed your sorrow, but we admire your resolution to keep your kingdom clean of corruption. Is it not known to all the wise that the greatest Princes have ever firmly set aside their gentleness to govern with unrelenting hand, to bring prosperity and greatness to their realm?"

Monarch? How quickly and cleverly the Ambassador had read the signs – or perhaps had directed the flow of things? Moll could not tell. In the turmoil of the moment, the mis-titling of the host could pass as accidental; likewise, in the turmoil, it could be passed over without comment.

Either way, she admired the training and skill of the Ambassador, to seem almost at ease in abnormal scenes, to adroitly seize the moment to ensure his country's standing in a shift of power, if there was indeed a shift of power. And one last skill – to quickly and deftly abstract himself from delicate situations.

"We will not further trespass on your generosity! Your guestrooms are comfort itself, my Lord, and with your gracious permission, we will seek a rest there, but look with sober delight to the pleasure of seeking your wisdom tomorrow, on the matters of relations between this green and fruitful realm, and that mighty empire of my Master…." he bowed himself out, surrounded by his little retinue.

It was a cue seized by the Court generally, and Moll, too, thought it was best to withdraw, silently, from the presence of the Lord Protector, and return to the Nursery.

**ooooo**

**The Gentlemen were there already,** and they sat long that day, until the evening shadows began to gather in the corners of the room, and Pidda lit the fire for the child's night-posset. Shaking, lost, raging, caught between fear and shame – they spoke at first almost unconscious that they could be heard by Moll and the maids.

"How stupid! how _stupid_ of them to speak _then!_"

"We were lucky that they were gagged – I thought for one minute they were going to call on us for aid."

"Contemptible, Arlian! If you have the misfortune to have such a mind, have the shame to keep it to yourself!"

"Leave it, both of you. We have to face it now. With the Passarids gone, and the Beaversdams shut away – we cannot any longer pretend it's not happening."

"And Belisar!"

"Yes, Belisar. Do I take we are still agreed that we need to act?"

"How can we, without the brothers?"

"Are we Men? Are we Telmarines? Will we crumple under pressure like _girls_, Arlian?" and as if the word was a signal, the men all suddenly seemed to become aware of Pidda, clanging the irons at the fire, and fell silent.

**ooooo**

**They regained their confidence,** somewhat, over the following days; at least, they assumed again their public faces of careless, half-jesting urbanity. But they had lost the air of resolution which had come with their few weeks in company of the Beaversdam brothers, and their conversation with each other – once more coded and elliptical – was more questioning than planning. Moll surmised that, lacking the brothers' leadership they were trying again to consider who might be drafted to fill the vacancy – for certainly, she decided, none of the Gentlemen themselves had the hardihood or wisdom to devise and carry out a campaign for change in the regime.

One evening, for example, Lord Erimon was gazing at the fire, when he drawled out, apparently at random, "Burrrrrn?"

The other Gentlemen paused in their half-hearted dicing and looked at each other, questioning. Arlian rose, strolled over to where Moll was readying the child for bed, and said, irrelevantly, "He's a good little man, isn't he, Nurse? but he doesn't like a quarrel, I think."

'_Burn_' was certainly a code, but for what? or for whom? she wondered, and answered cautiously. "No, your honour. He's not the quarrelsome kind."

Arlian grinned, a trifle bitterly. "Oh, I don't suppose any of us think we're the quarrelsome kind. But sometimes a quarrel might – just _happen_, eh, Erimon?"

"Maybe one _mavra_llous _morn_ing?"

"No. Too hasty. That is… is the boy too hasty, Nurse Moll? does he… ahhh… lack discretion?"

"As you see, sir. He is quiet, though quick for his years."

"Good. Good."

"Yes, I agree. We need discretion above all," came from the short, dark one, Lord Runan.

Agree with what? But the strange banter was, she thought, just another form of their old vacillating, self-doubting, inconclusive talk. There was no hard reality in their desire for change; nothing in that to tell Cornelius. But the rest – she burned to share with him the news of the brothers, of the Calormene Ambassador – and her own idea for engineering change, borne of the Lady Prismia's fears and her own tale of the Water-boggle. She could trust him at least to assess the idea, to contribute from his own knowledge of Humans.

**ooooo**

**But she could not get to Cornelius. **The next contact she had with the Cell was with Krimbin, towards the end of summer. Once again they exchanged what news they could in the crowded kitchen, under cover of her thanks for the gift he brought for the Prince. She had less to tell, and more to hear, this time.

"My aunt wishes she could know you, to hear more about life in this great castle."

Well, that was simple enough – the Cell wanted information – but what, precisely?

"She has an old friend who can read' _Cornelius, certainly_, "who has told her all she has learned about the Castle" _who has passed on the information she had given him_ "and they just sit there and think and knit and talk together." _That was more difficult, but a moment's thought brought her to the Network – the information had been passed, then, by Grattandrak, to the Network at the summer gathering, and they were considering it._

"If I could, I would sit and talk with those old ladies," she offered, after a second's thought. "I think I would have a knitting pattern or two to share with them." Was that enough? to say that she had a plan, a strategy to offer? It seemed so. Krimbin nodded without hesitation.

"And they would be glad to have them, I don't doubt. And to hear from you about the great doings here." _Yes – but __which__ great doings?_ "My cousin from Archenland is soon to visit her at last." _The contact with false, wavering Archenland had been re-established? Or was there an envoy coming to the Court?_

"And will he chat with the old women – or would he rather be here in the Castle?" she asked, making a joke of it, but signalling her confusion.

"Oh, a young man like that – he would surely rather be here!" Good. So there was to be an envoy or an embassy from Archenland – and the Network asked her for all possible information. Understood.

"Good – I'm sure she will be happy to hear all his news." _I will do all I can, to gather the information and to send it._

Her eyes signalled to him, his to her: _understood_. And that was all.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

**A/N:** Reviews are very, very much appreciated.


	9. Betrayal

**Chapter 9: Betrayal**

**But the weeks passed**, and summer drew towards a close, and the Archenlandish embassy had not arrived. Still – she had three tasks now, she reflected: to mould the child, to gather every scrap of information she could for Krimbin – or for whoever, somewhere in the Network, was working on trying to bring Archenland the betrayer back to its old alliance. And her own plan, which needed Cornelius' sharp mind and wide experience to bring it to a clear hard state where it could be put before the Network. But there was the flash of the true ore in there, she felt; between them they could smelt it into iron-hard weapon of its own. And surely Cornelius, in the library, with occasional access to the listening tubes and the papers there, would have something of value to help her with the Archenland mission, too?

So, for the time, she kept working on the child. He certainly knew now that all living Animals were his Friends and his Cousins; she began to widen the view, to seeing the whole land as a living entity which responded to love and care, which needed protection especially from the king, and also to fix in his mind the idea of loyalty, from a king to the kingdom.

"A boy must be _true_ to his Cousins! What must a boy be?"

"True's Cous'ns." The child was not focussed on her, but he was still echoing the words as he played his own quiet play under the huge golden-brown leaf canopy. No matter that he seemed oblivious, the words were pushing into his mind, she felt confident. She began to hum the tune of an old ballad, of the first meeting of the Three Good Guardians. No song was ever lost completely; once he had heard it, it would stay in his mind.

…_The Boy and Beasts gazed horrified_

_The roaring flames grew higher_

_For all saw that a Noble Horse,_

_stood tethered in the fire._

_ooo  
_

"_Now who can save this Noble Beast?_

"_and who to him be true?_

"_For Cousins are we, every one,_

"_and must as Cousins, do."_

_ooo_

_The Boy leapt up, "Tis true," said he_

"_and every Horse my friend_

"_I will not leave the Noble Horse_

"_to such a fiery end!"_

_ooo_

_And up and spake a humble Mouse_

_and a humble Mouse was he_

"_If you will take me through the fire_

'_Tis I can set him free."_

_ooo_

_Then up he took the humble Mouse_

_and though the fire was high,_

_He leapt across the roaring flames_

_Hard-scorched, but did not shy._

_ooo_

_And there the Mouse did chew the rope,_

_And set the good Horse free_

_who took the Two onto her back _

_and galloped off all Three._

_ooo_

_And Three did live and Three did roam_

_and evermore were Friends_

_and Narnia's Three Good Guardians were_

_and thus my story ends._

She dropped back from singing to humming, and to her delight heard the child humming, too. He was a quick child, quick to learn and malleable, though not strong-willed. It would surely help him learn if he could learn to sing his lessons. But for now…

"The Boy was true to his good Cousin, the Horse," she stressed, "and the Mouse was true as well, and all three became the good Guardians of Narnia." Then with a quick glance across at Pidda, "as _you_ will one day be the Guardian of Narnia, little one. Even a Boy can be the Guardian of the land."

The boy did not look up, but she was sure, from the tilt of his head, that he was listening – and Pidda also, she found. The girl's mind had evidently seized on the mention of the child's future.

"They're taking an awfully long time about Naming him. He's gone two now, well and truly." The girl was troubled.

"About Naming him as King? But he will be king, of course."

"Well, but they should have his Naming." Pidda had a slight frown. There was often this small dissonance between Moll and the maids; they took so much for granted, as right and natural and known to all, when so much was _not_ clear to Moll. She took refuge in silence, and pondered the rest of the morning.

What was it about his Name? It was Caspian, of course. The Kings were always … her mind stopped. The Kings were always called Caspian, or had been since Caspian the Sixth, of course, but the Seventh – she herself knew the story of the Seventh Caspian, who was not himself the child of the previous king, but had married the powerful daughter of the Sixth Caspian, and was only then renamed _Caspian_. She had known the story, but not noticed the import for this child.

She thought back – had she ever heard her charge called by a name? _Ever?_ Oh, she felt now how far from the Human her blood was – would any Human nurse, or Lisathrien, even – would _any_ of them have gone so many months without even noticing that the child was called by no name? Just once, just _once_ she had heard him called "Caspian", and that one time, Miraz had shown plainly his unease, his dislike.

She herself had called him Caspian, she was sure. But perhaps, just by chance, never when others were by. ('Aslan's grace', Ashdreo would have said, with his dark, challenging eyes on her. She shook off the thought.)

But if they were refusing to name him with the king's name, Caspian, did that mean he was being edged further and further from the kingship? and if he were _not_ named king – she recalled the Calormene calling Miraz "_Monarch_" – then her time here, and all the pains of the cell to support her, and Lisathrien's death, would all be wasted.

No.

That would _not_ happen. He was going to _have_ that name, a hated name among the Narnians – why else had she avoided it so long? – the name of the 'Conqueror' and after that the recurring name of their greatest enemy, but he was going to _have_ that name, and he was going to be king.

"Caspian!" The boy looked up, in innocent enquiry. "Caspian, come here, and I will sing that song again. And then after I will tell you about Caspian, your great-great grandfather."

**ooooo**

**She took the name back** to the Nursery, and used it strongly, at every safe opportunity. Before Pidda, before Dell – who gave her a startled look, a conscious look – and before the three Gentlemen. It was a risk, but she knew enough of their own unease with how the Court was shaping to be fairly sure that they would not make trouble for her. Nor did they.

Curiously, it was Dell who first followed her lead, coming in the next day, with the laundry, and saying austerely: "Here's the new towels, Mistress Nurse, and the warmer clothes for Prince Caspian, now that the weather is cooling."

Moll kept her face as free of any significance as ever Dell's had been, and took the small pile of linen, pretending to check that it was all in order — though when had Dell ever delivered anything otherwise? – but behind her she heard a sharp sound, as of a sudden movement knocking something over on the table. Which of the Gentlemen it had been, she could not say.

When she was able to look, she saw that Runan's dark, intelligent eyes had lit up with something between amusement, calculation and respect, and that he was glancing back and forth between Dell and herself – so he was cleverer than she had thought, perhaps. He called the boy "Prince Caspian" before the day was out, and did so thereafter – and incidentally gave the boy more attention than before, as if his name had somehow brought him into the group of real people, not a formless baby.

Erimon had followed by the close of the day after, and last of the three, and, she thought, reluctantly, Arlian.

They used the name differently, Runan was certainly using it consciously and in loyalty, as a recognition of the child's impending kingship. Erimon was using it strategically – as she was herself, she admitted – to foster the strength of the boy's position in the court – possibly for his own purposes, in pursuit of future position. To Arlian, it seemed more of a game, a password, a sign of a shared secret between himself and the other Gentlemen.

Pidda was slower, and avoided the name altogether for some time, though she adopted a method of using the undefined title "His Highness" to refer to the child. The girl was learning caution, Moll surmised, and would not easily commit to what was, after all, something of a little Court-based resistance movement in itself.

But Moll still felt uneasy that she had not noticed for so long that the child had been nameless. She had taken on the job as Nurse in confidence – or even arrogance? she suddenly wondered – thinking all that was needed was a milk-flow, and her own shrewd wit. But Humanness, too – she was short of _that_ commodity! She needed so urgently to speak with Cornelius, and draw from his knowledge.

**ooooo**

**It was dangerous.** She worked for days to contrive a reason for the visit, planting the thought in the boy's mind that he wanted to see the portraits again.

"Which picture do you want to see the most, Caspian? The ship, or the horsey?"

He looked perplexed, but readily accepted the puzzle offered, pondering hard before finally deciding for the 'horsey', never noticing that he was also accepting the assumption that he wanted to see a picture at all.

"I think you want to see the Lady in the strange hat, with the big feather!"

"It was fun to count all the swans in the river. You loved doing that!"

He was Human; he believed what she told him, that he wanted to see the pictures, and next time she walked on the South Tower battlements, she manoeuvred to have the boy tell his implanted desires to his uncle. It was not altogether easy; she had to depart somewhat from her usual unobtrusive manner when on these walks. Miraz was no fool; he might be suspicious at such a change, but it was the strategy she had plotted out, and she resolutely followed it.

She lagged behind, just a fraction, and looked out through the embrasure and away over the river, scanning for anything worth noticing, which could possibly connect to the pictures. Horses, goat – Flet? – swans…

"Oh, a swan on the river!" It was inane enough, and it was 'putting herself forward', but luckily the child responded more quickly than his uncle, with "Want see swan!".

And when his uncle, distantly indulgent as was his usual way with the child, nodded to her to pick the child up, she spoke quickly, "Oh, it's the swans in the picture he wants to see, my Lord!"

And the child, easily distracted, and well primed by the days before, echoed "Swan'n picture! Want swan'n picture!"

Miraz looked commandingly at Moll, and she stumbled out – deliberately stumbling – her explanation, about the pictures in the Library, how he was taken to see them – "Your Lordship's family" she added, placatingly. "One has so many little animals in it; he's said a lot lately that he wants to see it again."

"Want see picture."

"Yes. Yes, I know the portraits." Miraz was testy, but not displeased. She waited for him to give her permission to take the child to the Library. But Miraz, as ever, was unpredictable. His mouth quirked, and he gestured 'follow me!' to Moll, and set off, walking rapidly, his short cloak swirling, in from the battlements and along the many corridors to the Library. Moll, burdened by Caspian as well as his horse, had hard work to keep him in sight; when she got to the Library, the Protector was already inside, and surrounded by a cluster of officials, Recorders, and Noters.

Her heart sank; what chance did she have of speaking to Cornelius unnoticed in all this tumult? She saw him there, in the obsequious cluster, but could not possibly reach him.

"Well? Bring the boy!"

Moll hesitated an instant, and in that instant Cornelius' dumpy form was next to her, taking the wooden horse and setting it down at the doorway, and urging her forward to the Protector. _I need to speak_, her eyes said, and _There are no listening tubes as yet_, his replied. And then she was next to the Lord Protector, and he was beckoning her to follow him, and giving rapid orders to several different Recorders at once. It seemed his fancy had been caught by the reference to his family; he was wanting all at once to show the boy – or to see himself – the old pictures, and old documents, and things unknown but kept as treasures in the Palace.

She was forced to accompany him and the cluster of Librarians to hang over a large table on which were spread out maps – she saw Cornelius keen eyes scan them, and hoped that he would make something of the information in them. They went to a cabinet, and here her luck changed (_luck?_ She felt again Ashdreo's dark watchfulness.) – Miraz held out his arms for the boy, and took him away to some other corner of the Library, and the cluster followed.

Left with Cornelius, she did not waste time, but tumbled straight into her tale – first, of the Calormene Ambassador, and his implicit overture to recognize Miraz as king, and how it perhaps linked to the child's long time un-named. He nodded.

"Yes, they began to use the name some generations back, to bolster uncertain claims to the throne; it's become customary now. As for Calormen, doubtless they plan to push for Narnia to become a vassal-province of the Empire in return for supporting Miraz' claim." They both knew how much farther Narnia's freedom would recede if that should happen "I wonder if it is their plan, or his? But for both reasons, to follow our plan and to frustrate theirs, you've done well to start the counter to it, Moll!"

A quick, covert smile passed between them; he did not need to add that he would take the information to the Network, and that they would find other ways to work against the Calormene strategy. She turned directly to telling of Prismia's role in Lith'en's death, and fear of trees, and her own plan to exploit that.

"I was telling the boy" in the same halls as Miraz she would not risk the hissing '_s_' of '_Caspian_' "a tale to make him afraid of the river, to keep him safe," – no need to tell the other reason she had needed to tell the tale – "and it came to me – we can use tales and songs to shape fear into the minds of the…of _them_." No more than '_Caspian_' was '_Telmarines_' a safe word to utter.

Cornelius nodded, "I see it. With you, we are using their affections against them. Now you are asking – why not their fears? It is cleverly thought of, Moll."

"It could be done! To make them uneasy at every wild tree will surely help to drive them from our land. It could be done, even just with sounds in the forests at night, but even more with songs and tales."

He was musing. "I think not that alone to drive them out. But yes… fear could shake them and anything that shakes them will make them easier prey for us if this scheme fails and we come to open battle again. Here is a fear to hand – yes, in only one woman, but she is the greatest Lady of the land. If we can foster her fear, nourish it, make it seem reasonable, we can maybe spread that fear through all of them."

"With tales and songs… and gossip whispered between old women, and then told, as a secret to younger ones. Larissa! Larissa was always for using Humans in our struggle – we can use them to spread their own stories…" She paused, alight with excitement of this new way to strike a blow against them. "I would _like_ to be given that task, to stir up fears, to _terrify_ them to screaming point…"

He smiled. "I believe you! Are you sure you have no Hag-blood in you, Moll?"

She stiffened. But he was speaking at random, as a… as the Gentlemen had been used to pretend to believe untrue things of each other, for a game. And in any case, she had no Hag-blood.

"It is a good idea, and yes, it could work well." Cornelius had reverted to his most serious now. "I will see it discussed by the Cell, and at the next summer meeting of the Network. Fear of Trees, using tales, songs, gossip, hints – and maybe even sounds in forests at night."

"One more thing, Cornelius…" But Miraz was returning, taking the boy, as she had taken him several weeks earlier, along the gallery of portraits. She supposed the plan was to finish where the boy had supposedly wanted to go, to see the Beasts and Birds who flew and swam and paced across the panel showing the seventh Caspian.

She lowered her voice further. "Krimbin says an Archenlandish embassy is coming here." Her face twisted in disgust; it had been a long, long disappointment to see Archenland stand by, acquiescent in the rape of Narnia, or wilfully blind, at least. "He asks for all possible information."

Cornelius nodded. "Yes, they are coming. Whether they come for trade or more treachery I don't know. Maybe we did ill to ask the envoy to leave us two years' back, the night we heard about Lisathrien – I don't know. Trust then might have engendered trust now. But whatever I can hear I shall give to the Cell. The other thing – it will be a slow business, Moll. This year's Network gathering is over; it may be now nearly a year before you hear whether or no your plan is accepted by the Network, and you may never know which cell is given the task, or how they carry it out."

She looked at him with a touch of the old scorn – though he had somehow become her trusted fellow-worker over these two years, or nearly two years. How had that come about, she wondered? But then – she had never heard him admit to not knowing twice in one breath before. As for the delay…

"I am not a Human or a water-girl, to need quickness in my work!"

"You are like me, Dwarf-brood," he agreed, "and less Human than I am, but Moll, you _do_ have Human blood."

Was he warning her, or consoling her? But it was too late to ask. Miraz had worked his way almost to them, and while he was still occupied with the painted show of his forebears, they could not risk further talk of any sort.

"Here, child, here is your grandmother." Miraz put up his hand, one finger tracing slowly down the edge of the painted face. "An extraordinary woman, and a great Queen, a great Queen of Narnia."

Moll schooled her face to immobility.

**ooooo**

**For all that she was the most reluctant** to join the tiny Nursery insurrection of the name, it was Pidda who first brought it to the attention of the wider court. Glozelle was making one of his visits to the Nursery – Moll thought that he came somewhat more often now, though to check on the Gentlemen, rather than on the Prince. He had a smooth way about him, but always with a suggestion of subtle jibing.

"You are all very quiet here since your two horse-masters left, hhmm?"

"The summer season is nearly gone," managed Erimon. "The court is always quieter after that."

"The court, yes. Will you go hunting, do you think? I suppose you were looking forward to hunting with them again."

Erimon growled. Runan took a deep breath, and spoke, "We were indeed, Glozelle. You know how warmly we felt for them. You need not jeer that we sorrow to know they are shut away."

"Your pardon! I did not come to jeer, but to enquire plainly – what word have you had from their sister?"

"From the Rough?" the words broke from Arlian, in total blank surprise. So, thought Moll, there has been no word from her. Has there been word _to_ her, to tell of her brothers' imprisonment?

"From the Lady Drinia, yes. You have heard nothing?"

"No." from Arlian. Glozelle's bland, enquiring gaze drew the same denial from Erimon and Runan.

"Ah. Well this surprises me, a little, but pleases me much. And more importantly, will please our Lord and Protector." Glozelle stood up from the table – he had been half-sitting on the edge of it.

"You may find it hard to believe, but I wish you well. The Court needs no _more_ sadness at this time." He paused, consideringly, then added, "Lord Miraz has noted your discomfort. He very much hopes that it has not… ahhh… led to any disaffection here, especially in a time of change."

_Miraz_ had noted? Moll thought not – she had seen him that day, and seen how far he was from noting the reactions of all the Court, and the Gentlemen had been little enough away from the Nursery since then. No, it was _Glozelle_ who was noting, and questioning, she was certain. And what change?

But Glozelle was satisfied for the time, and smiling blandly to the three, and ignoring both Moll and the child, he prepared to leave.

And then Pidda came into the Nursery, carrying the new, fleecy blankets for Caspian's new cot – he had outgrown his cradle. The pile was high, and she didn't see Glozelle, apparently – though maybe her heedlessness meant that she truly did not understand that her words were, in fact, rebellion. She spoke proudly and happily, perhaps because she had decided to accept the new title and name at last.

"I've brought the new blankets for Prince Caspian, Mis'ess Nurse!"

Glozelle was thunderstruck. He took one furious step towards Pidda, when he was interrupted by Runan's voice, not shaking, _not_ shaking, but perceptibly, deliberately, held steady.

"You've done well, girl. _Prince Caspian_ will sleep warmer tonight."

Glozelle whirled. Pidda was forgotten. He stared at the three Gentlemen, who had all risen, and stood side by side. They stared back, one resolute and defiant, one with a sort of humorous challenge, and one with the chagrin of a gambler who had just lost his last toss.

It was a long moment; then Glozelle nodded, as if noting something of only minor importance, and left.

**ooooo**

**For days after **Moll was tensed for what might happen – and by their silence and glances, the Gentlemen were, too. Runan continued, punctiliously, to call the boy "Prince Caspian' – Erimon and Arlian hardly spoke. But days passed, and there seemed to be no consequence from the discovery of their Nursery insurrection. Moll wondered if Glozelle could even be accepting the use of the kingly name, maybe even spreading its use elsewhere in the Court – though he could also be just biding his time for a later betrayal.

Whichever it was, the days passed, slowly. Leaffall was well upon them when the Archenland envoy arrived. Not an Ambassador, after all, but an envoy, it seemed from the Gentlemen's talk, but perhaps one who was coming to negotiate toward formal acceptance of the Telmarine overlordship? It would be the last bitter betrayal from the country they had thought was their closest ally.

Narnia had thought to find a rock-solid friendship in the old alliance, and Archenland's support had crumbled like shale under pressure. When first Telmar invaded, they had been supporters of Free Narnia, but that had crumbled, so quickly! And all these long years since, Archenland had stood by and watched, as Narnia's throat had been ripped out by these dogs of Telmarines.

Moll, on the battlements, saw the little party arrive. So late in the year, it would only be a short stay, presumably, not the greater festivities of the Calormene Ambassador's summer visit. She wondered if there would be any reception, with herself and the child – Prince Caspian – called to be present. To stand stolid and unmoving, while Archenland betrayed her people yet again would be difficult. If Archenland was making more overtures to Telmar now, what could it mean but more treachery?

She kept the rage within, but her whole self was rigid with anger, at the thought of their treachery. At the first invasion, and again and again, when appeals had been made, Archenland's, and other treacheries, too. Who had _not_ betrayed them?

**ooooo**

The anger was still with her as night fell, as the child – Caspian – was settled safely abed, as the Gentlemen left for the night, as Pidda, one more time, nestled down next to the fireplace and asked confidingly for "more of that story".

"You want more of _that_ story? You want more of that?" She turned on the girl, speaking low, quickly and with savage scorn. "Then, _listen!_ It is a story right for _you_, at least – it is a story of vile betrayal and then betrayal again, and betrayal once more, of a deeper and most potent kind."

Pidda was startled. "Mis'ess, if…" but Moll was ruthless in attack.

"You wanted to know what the Boy did – he betrayed his family to the Queen, knowing she would kill them, knowing that they were powerless against her. He told her where she could find them, how she would know them… he betrayed their trust and their love to the one who would rip their hearts from their bodies if she could! Oh, yes, a story right for _you_!"

Pidda had gone white – her eyes were huge and black against her paper-white skin. The sight enraged Moll further.

"Oh… you're so _delicate_, not to be spoken to hard! But you know about treachery, don't you, Pidda? I think you do – betraying one who trusted you, who loved you! _How_ did Prismia know about Lith… Lillan? Oh, I _know_ how she knew! And you, you must know _exactly_ what crime this Boy did! And did again – betrayed those who loved him to the Queen and then betrayed the Queen to the lion…"

"She was a witch," The words were gasped, weakly.

"Oh – "witch" – and does that word make betrayal right? Was _that_ your justification for Lith'en's… _Lillan's_ death? Did you call her 'vile thing' like Miraz does and think _that_ would make the betrayal good? Who are you to judge who should be betrayed? You say 'Witch', and think that makes the boy's betrayal good. And you _judge_ and you _abandon_ and you betray!"

Pidda shrank back, but Moll followed up, mercilessly, all her years of anger at Archenland's betrayal, and all her grief – _grief?_ – at Lithen's death, and even her uncertainty about Glozelle's next actions, knotting together to make one huge, aching wrongness which could only be relieved by telling this one betrayer, at least, how vile was the act of treachery.

"Betrayal on betrayal!" she spat out the words. "And then she was betrayed again – her claim was _just!_ She had the right to his life, because of his treachery. And it was trickery and treachery again which took him from her knife."

"But it was a bargain," Pidda still argued feebly. "you said the Lion…"

"There _is_ no Lion! There _never was_ a Lion! It is a tale for idiots and children, and _it doesn't make sense_…"

"Nurse? Mistress Nurse?" It was Dell, suddenly in the Nursery, and she saw through her tears (her _tears?_) that the older maid was gesturing the younger away, protecting her as – Moll felt the wild urge to laugh rising in her – as the Rough Lady had protected her brothers from Miraz in his rage. And as the brothers had simply gone from view, so Pidda had gone, and Dell too, and Moll was alone.

But Pidda would not ask again, at least, to hear the story of the Lion and the Traitor.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

A/N: As always, many, many thanks to reviewers; thanks to you, and to the things I observe in reading other people's stories, I think I am learning some things about how to do this at last!


	10. Consequences

**Chapter 10: Consequences**

**She supposed it had been** yet one more false step, letting the Telmarine girl see her anger. False steps – clumsy, ugly steps, and no clear way to undo them. She felt wearily that she would never achieve the easy balance and grace that others seemed to carry as a birthright. Her own birthright was like a scar, like a visible ugliness which repelled others and hampered her own work. Pidda had been repelled, certainly. She now wouldn't look at Moll, wouldn't meet her eyes, was a continual shadow of bitterness and reproach.

The cooling of the season at least spared them the times in the meadow together, Moll reflected. As the days shortened toward winter, they met only in the Nursery, and most often there with others about. Even there, though, she sidled in, rather than her former way of entering cheerily, and spoke to Moll as little as she could.

And she was not the only one who was talking less. The Gentlemen were much quieter than they had been. All their nervous banter and haphazard semi-plotting had stopped, as they waited for whatever results might come from Glozelle's awareness of the small rebellion in the Nursery, the naming of the prince with the kingly name, by his own personal staff.

It relieved things a little that Prince Caspian made some noise, playing, and that he called cheerily for attention and for Moll to be his playmate as well as his Nurse. He was agile and energetic, able now to run and jump and climb, but since the weather had begun to turn chilly again, he had to do so in the confines of the Nursery. So he scooted about the Nursery on his horse, and clambered up on the chairs; one day, with a laughably intense look of concentration he edged his way all along the wide back ledge in Moll's bednook, and then threw her such a look of achievement and pride that she almost felt pride in him herself.

He could throw and catch well, for one of his age, and Moll contrived him a new ball from cloth scraps. The next day Runan brought another, made of soft leather, and showed him how to nudge it along the floor with his foot, until it could dribble in between two of the chairs, shifted up against the bednook for the purpose. The other Gentlemen even joined in, for a few self-mocking moments, in a grim, sad mockery of play, but Runan did genuinely attempt to amuse Prince Caspian over those several days, to make him laugh and feel proud.

But these little activities apart, the Nursery had become a more silent place, with Pidda so often absent, and the Gentlemen moodily taciturn. Just once, there was something like a conversation between the three of them.

"We could just leave for a week or so?"

"Where would you go?"

"We could go to The Rough, say we'd come for the hunting – we have other years."

"And drag her into it?"

"Drop it, Erimon. Arlian, if we left now, especially all three of us together, they'd be calling it treason; right now, it's just a few words, and only here in the Nursery."

"Maybe." Erimon sounded worn. "We're marked now, though, by Glozelle, if not by Miraz, and Glozelle now has control of the castle guard. We'd do best to just make our peace with him."

"Well." Runan paused, but kept on with his own train of thought. "We can't leave openly and together, and if we left more secretly, then – again: they would certainly be calling us traitors. We have no choice but to stay here until this blows over. Our best chance is that Glozelle just keeps quiet, to have a hold over us – you know what he's like."

"And if he doesn't keep quiet?"

"They can hardly make too much just of the Naming. And whatever he was fishing for when he asked about The Rough, he didn't find."

Arlian turned away, fists clenched in frustration, and the stifling silences returned.

**It felt like a respite** from tension when Moll was called from the Nursery, to bring the prince to be shown to the Archenland envoy. She found a bleak amusement in noting the embossed leather gear brought for the prince to wear at this showing; like her own garments, his coat and tunic and breeches were finely graded to show the lesser status of an envoy, as compared with the Ambassador who had come in summer, and to show the less deference to be paid to a representative from Archenland as compared to one from the mighty Calormene empire.

Still, they were escorted by the Seneschal himself to where Miraz and Prismia both waited on the dais in the Great Audience Chamber. The Seneschal gestured to the Nursery party to pause in the entryway, and Moll took stock of the scene in front of her. Even across the length of the Great Chamber she could see that Prismia stood stiff and unhappy within her protective cage of rich full-skirted satins; her face showed pale, though her shoulders were set tensely straight. One hand fluttered towards Miraz, and his own touched it lightly in support – so was it the envoy, or the last lingering of autumn, which was troubling the Lady?

A tall, thin man was obviously being received as a respected, if not highly honoured, guest. In the few minutes she had to observe the discussion at the dais Moll noted what detail she could for later passing to the Cell. The man held himself proudly and was clad well, in the Archenlandish style, though not richly. He seemed not to have brought his small party of retainers or advisors with him to this audience – another sign of the low level of this visit. Miraz stood affable and apparently unconcerned, other than those occasional small touches on the Lady Prismia's hand; his demeanour to the envoy was warm, if condescending, it appeared. A courtier stood beside the envoy, a Telmarine. Not Glozelle – Sopespian, she wondered?

Moll strained to hear the conversation.

"Yes, Lord Protector, Lord Sopespian" _ah!_ "has most graciously unfolded to me the development of the border controls since my last visit, so that our great neighbours," _Calormen?_ _and more than one visit_… "will have less cause for concern at the smuggling." _so – not diplomatic recognition yet, but trade regulation it seemed; and Calormen's pressure in the background _ "But one thing he could not show… or chose, rather, that I see in your company…"

"We well recall! You signified to us then that your master has asked, in his kindness to our House," _indeed?_ "for word of the Prince and next heir of this Kingdom. We have brought him to you!"

The man turned, smiling, and looked straight to the entryway – and his smile dropped like a stone. His gaze fixed, not on the Prince, but on Moll. It was the man she had seen two years earlier, at the Cell meeting, on the night of the day Lisathrien had died.

No less than his on her, were Moll's eyes fixed on him. But the Seneschal was gesturing, and there was no alternative. She took a deep breath and stumped steadily ahead. And after all, he could not denounce her without saying that he had, for a time at least, attempted contact with a rebel group in Narnia.

Her mind seemed to have fissured into three – one part walking automatically towards the dais, one part calculating her chances of surviving the meeting, and one part grimly rejoicing that she would have somewhat of interest to tell Krimbin, if ever they met again, about his 'aunt's nephew' from Archenland.

But the man was not minded to denounce her immediately, at least – so she would be, she thought, in the same case as the three Gentlemen, never knowing, now, when the blow might fall. Her mind flashed to Glozelle; she thought grimly that if he had been there, he would certainly have noticed the rigidity of the Archenlander's back. But this man, this Sopespian, seemed as oblivious as Miraz.

The envoy was playing out his part, asking her about the prince's health, but also asking questions of the prince himself – whom he addressed as "little Highness" – but all the time his eyes asked questions of her. She answered his open questioning as necessary, but briefly; his eyes she did not answer at all, keeping her face stone-still, while her mind churned, asking its own questions.

Someone had told this envoy, however diplomatically he had framed the request, to see if Prince Caspian was alive, or well, or still the expected heir.

Who was this "master"? The King of Archenland, or some lesser Lord? Were they assessing, as Calormen had, how close the claim to the crown was to slipping from the child to his uncle? And what did it mean to them, either way?

In a word, was this man for or against Narnia? She recalled Cornelius' word to her – had the Cell's lack of trust, two years back, lost them support from Archenland, now? Could she trust him now?

"And can you sing any song for us, little Highness?" She jolted back to the present danger, to head off any dangerous or telltale song, and began to clap for the child a familiar rhythm, to lead him aright… one and two and…

"one-a-two-a-dee-a-four," he chanted,

"aw-gooth-ing-a-keep-a-store,

"fy-fa-see-sa-sen-a-eight…" His voice trailed away, but he had done enough to please the envoy, at least, had done as well as one of his age could be expected to manage.

"So! You see his wit as well as his health!" Miraz nodded jocularly to the envoy. "You may return to your master and say that your suit to keep close tally of the trade at the Anvard pass will be well-met when my nephew is grown, at least!"

Prismia, Sopespian and the envoy all laughed appreciatively, and Miraz expanded further with their sycophancy. Still, the audience was clearly almost at an end – the envoy had asked to see that the prince was well, and had seen that.

"That concludes our business, Sir Envoy! Go now with Lord Sopespian, back to the guest chambers; it is time for you young men," _but they were all much of an age, surely, Miraz and Sopespian and this envoy?_ "to talk alone in cheer and amity. You two may talk more at your ease in the guest chambers, and build more comradeship between our nations, than we may do in this great hall."

It was a trap. She saw it like a flash of lightning; Sopespian was to take this Archenlander and entrap him somehow, or cajole him maybe, into a league, as she felt sure now the Calormene and Glozelle had leagued together, to undermine Prince Caspian's path to the throne. But a trap, certainly, to betray himself or commit himself by some careless word, heard by the listening-tubes.

But was this man a friend or an enemy? She had no time to think, to calculate whether to keep safe – _but she was here, she could __not__ be safe!_ – or to trust. She must choose.

She took one step forward, just a short half-step, but enough to catch the eye of the envoy, and with courtesy, or interest, he turned.

"Would you like one more song, maybe, Lord Envoy?"

"Enough!" Miraz face showed astonishment, which quickly became anger – somewhere in her split mind she laughed, that he could hardly believe that an insignificant servant could have "taken it on herself" to speak. But his anger was what she had hoped for, what she had gambled on, in fact since "one more song", if accepted, could have led so easily to an innocent betrayal by the prince.

"I beg pardon, Lord Protector! I know well that your _ears must grow weary hearing so much _inconsequential matter." a quick flash of her eyes, for the envoy to see, to the walls around, as she rose from what would look to Miraz like a deep and apologetic courtesy. Would it serve? "I will _keep a close guard on my mouth_, my Lord," a sudden recollection of the countrywife role, "like my old aunt once put a gag on her favourite hen, when it _cackled too much for her liking_."

Miraz was still outraged; he waved an impatient hand to have her gone, and she could not stay to see if the envoy understood her or not. Holding Prince Caspian's hand, she backed away, and out of the Chamber.

**ooooo**

**So - she had eroded away** some of Miraz' goodwill, and offered trust to a man who might himself be a traitor; she was deeply thoughtful on her return to the Nursery.

She wondered why she had chosen as she did, if she had chosen, and not simply acted without choosing. There had been, somewhere in her mind, a darting memory of Runan, stepping out of safety to divert attention from stupid, blabbing Pidda, and a recollection of Cornelius – _'trust might engender trust…' _ But nothing which added up to the plain fact-based decision and straightforward determination she usually lived by.

She looked about the Nursery. Dell was there to retrieve the ceremonial clothes, and take them away for refreshing, but no-one else.

"You are alone? Not even Pidda?" Moll asked, beginning to undo the strings on the prince's short, stiff leather outer coat.

"No," Dell replied, dryly. "She'll not be in here if she can help it." Yes, it had been one more false step; it seemed she had lost Dell's sympathy as well as Pidda's.

"Well, she's made trouble enough, I think; maybe we'll have a quieter time without her," Moll ventured, cautiously, remembering how the older maid had intervened to protect the younger from her anger.

It seemed Dell remembered it, too; she folded her lips tightly, while the jacket was stripped off the child, then spoke, with more sharpness than Moll had heard from her before.

"Yes, her tongue runs away with her, and we may see trouble from that – the Gentlemen or Pidda herself, or any of us. But your own tongue can be quick and sharp enough, Nurse, and though she was the one who said it, and Lord Runan was the one who took it on himself to take the attention from her, I know whose mouth it came from first!"

So… and did that mean she would turn the trouble Moll's way, perhaps? Well, better to know, if so.

"And do you plan to tell what you know, Mistress Dell?"

"Maybe. But you see now the reason of what I say: the _less we know the less trouble we can make_ – and that's true for all of us, including you, Nurse. I know you stand for the rights of our Prince," – _do you indeed? but do you know __why__? _ – "but though you might know something about the right name, you should have left it to those who know more to give it to him."

"And how long might that have been?" Moll flashed. "Those who knew most – yes, I know you've served here since his great-grandfather's time! – were not _doing_."

Dell looked briefly as angry as Moll herself had ever done, but then closed her eyes, and began again, more peaceably. "Well, we are doing now, since you began it. I'll not tell you much, but you might as well know this. What you started has been taken from here into the Kitchen, and it's gone amongst the women of the Wardrobe, and – if I know how these things move! – it will creep its way through the town before the end of Leaf-fall. But what might come of _that_ I couldn't say – it might work for ill as much as for good. And that's enough of that. I'll trouble you for his tunic and his boots."

For ill as much as for good? But Dell was clearly finished talking. Without another word, Moll turned to stripping off the last of Prince Caspian's stiff reception gear, and settled him down into soft, warm cloth again.

**ooooo**

**It was almost the end of Leaf-fall – **five weeks since the Archenlander had departed, seven weeks since Glozelle had heard the king's name given to the Protector's nephew, and still the storm, if there was to be a storm, had not broken. Dell's prediction had proved accurate; the boy was called Prince Caspian now by all the kitchen staff at least, so much had come plain when Krimbin had called with his gift of apples from his "aunt".

The messenger who had come to tell her of it, had spoken as cheerily as if the child had never been without that name. "That fisherman's here again, with the apples for Prince Caspian."

She sent the messenger back to bring Pidda, who could mind the child – Prince Caspian! – while she was gone, and went confidently to the kitchen, where once again the gracious senior servant received the gifts of a humble palace fish-supplier – this time, smilingly, using the name which had spread so well.

"Ahh… fisherman! It is always good to get your gifts for Prince Caspian."

"My aunt's gifts, Mistress. You recall her nephew who is to come?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! But is he still to come? I would think _he has come and gone by now_."

A flash of consternation in Krimbin's eyes, as quickly hidden.

"But what of him? I wonder if I might have seen him maybe, when I lived down in the town? Is he a tall, thin man who has been in these parts before? I would think he would know me again if he saw me."

That should be enough for Krimbin. The man was identified, and the Cell would know that he had recognised Moll – but not denounced her, since she was still untouched. And… "From over Anvard way, did you say? he might be involved in some trade there, then? I hope not too close to all that hot desert!"

Krimbin nodded understanding, of both parts of that sentence. But there was still a slight frown in his eyes. "My aunt planned to give him a gift, an old ballad to take back to his own countryfolk." _He had had a message to pass to the envoy?_

"Ah, and he has gone forgetting it? Well, he may be back again, though stars know when, I suppose." It was the best she could offer – to hold the message in the hopes that the envoy returned. Krimbin's eyes blinked '_yes_', as one hand snaked quicker than light to hers….

… and the paper was gone as if it had never been, stowed in the open pocket of her underskirt. But she had one last thing to pass to Krimbin –

"Does your aunt's knitting group still meet? Tell them that Prince Caspian is well – so _many_ people are so interested in how he does – even Archenlanders, I daresay!"

Krimbin's quick, cynical smile in reply to that had cheered her, and even more so his reply, delivered with a double-edged bow of respect and acknowledgement. "Yes, I hear his name often in the town. _And_ I believe the knitting group has heard of a new pattern to follow, which they think will do very well indeed."

**ooooo**

**So Dell had been right,** she triumphed, as she clomped her ungainly way back to the Nursery. The ordinary Telmarines of the town _had_ adopted the Caspian name for the boy – and that must be a force, some sort of force, to strengthen his weak grasp on the crown.

_Humans_ were unconsciously working for the Network! supporting the Cell's scheme to have a hold over the mind of the next king, and would soon work further, by the way they would spread fear of Narnia's trees. She exulted in the multiplicity of the schemes, that they were pushing back Miraz' covert approach to the crown, reinforcing the potential to control the boy-king, and they were subverting Calormen's attempt – though only one of many, she was sure! – to transform Narnia into a vassal-state, and they would be gradually bringing the fear of trees into play as a weapon – she could begin today, by telling him some tale of the forests around, or maybe even the elms he knew so well...

There was a guard either side of the Nursery door.

She faltered in her step, conscious of the paper hid in her underpocket, but hesitation would not help – a straight blow shivers mountains, as her Iron-brood father had been used to say. She marched on towards the waiting guards, and they fell in beside her as she entered the Nursery, one on either side.

Inside were both Dell and Pidda. Pidda was holding a pile of garments – her own, the kind she was given to wear only for grand assemblies of the Court – but it was not the season for guests, now? Dell had settled into Moll's own old nursing-chair, with an array of the child's fine wear tucked beside her; she was already stripping off the everyday wear that he had on, with an air of tense determination.

Moll ignored the Guards; surely it was best to take their presence as normal, as expected? She looked at the clothes – the heavy, ornate embroidered silks – and looked a question to Dell.

It was Pidda who answered, though, with her face hard and tight, looking away across to the window, or anywhere rather than at Moll. Her voice was bitter with resentment and a sort of triumphant blame, as if the palpable agitation and uncertainty in the room could somehow be sheeted home to Moll.

"No-one knows. But the whole Court's been called, and _especially_ Prince Caspian. It's to do with him, for sure."

Then Dell, her eyes full of a meaning for Moll alone, spoke under her breath. "_For good or ill_; today we may see which. And," in normal tones, "I'll get him ready. You had best hurry."

**ooooo**

**ooo**

**A/N:** Well! I've had great trouble writing this chapter, and working out the next one. (I really, really wanted to stick to a posting schedule of more-or-less round about every week, but I can see this time it's stretched to nine days.) Anyway – how are you all finding it? Is the pace all right? Are there too many characters? Did I make a huge mistake in writing a Pevensie-free, romance-free, story? Or in choosing to write where the _long-term_ end of the story is pretty well determined? Constructive criticism very welcome!


	11. Naming

**Chapter 11: Naming**

_**From the files of the Listening and Recording Division, 25 Fallowfield, Year 212 since Conquest.**_

**Recorder:** Cornelius, son of Suprimius, late of Beruna Town Administration

**Location: **Tube 11, Gatehouse.

**Watchman Bronun**: Halt! Who comes?

**Voice:** The Lady Drinia and party from her estates and holdings of the Western Waste

**Watchman Bronun**: What is your business here?

**Voice:** To pay duty to our prince and heir, and to the Lord Protector Miraz.

**Watchman Bronun**: Pass

**ooooo**

Moll had hurried into her clothes, as Dell had dressed the child. There was no time, and too many people present, to properly hide the letter Krimbin had given her. The best she could do, pleading an unlikely modesty in front of the guards, was to take herself around the edge of the room into the little privy alcove, and dressing there, transfer the letter from the underpocket in her old everyday clothes to a place tucked well down in the stiff bodice of the court clothes. Later, in the quiet of night, she could hide it under the mattress in Prince Caspian's old disused cradle.

When she emerged, in all the shining array of the full court dress of an upper servant, Prince Caspian, standing already fully dressed on Dell's lap, gazed at her, as if at a princess.

"He thinks you're beautiful!" Dell observed, half ironic, and half congratulatory.

Moll was taken aback, but grimaced, and replied with an old miners' saying. "You can't polish mud."

Nonetheless, she was aware of an odd, shy sense of pleasure in herself on the quick walk, the little Prince trotting beside her and the guards striding in a more measured pace, to the Great Audience Chamber. At the doorway, the guards gave way to the Seneschal's underling, looking unwontedly harried and tense. This she took as a good sign; if the Assembly concerned only herself and the Prince, then there would be no need for such visible general anxiety in everyone present. It was a great occasion—the clothes showed that – but unexpected; perhaps that alone would make for a tension in the tradition-loving Telmarine court.

The Seneschal's underling touched her gently on the elbow, she began the long walk to where Miraz and Prismia waited on the dais. The walk seemed longer, now that she was holding the child by his hand while he pattered slowly and solemnly beside her, but it at least gave her plenty of time to read and assess the looks of those about her. The nobles – surely, again, fewer than two years back, and fewer than at the Calormene's visit? Miraz and Prismia were resplendently dressed, and Prismia, especially, seemed excited, tremulously delighted to be once again standing in full magnificence as ruling Lady before the whole court.

Moll had reached the top of the room; Miraz and Prismia looked out and past her, but the Seneschal's eyes guided her to stand beside him, and she felt only a kindly approval from him. So whatever was coming, of good or ill, surely boded no ill to her?

Miraz stepped forward, hand-in-hand with Prismia – he held their joined hands high, triumphantly. Triumphant, too, was the ringing tone of his voice as he began to speak.

"Nobles! Most welcome are you all to this joyous gathering! Most welcome, if maybe, my good friends! _surprised_ at a summons to a winter festivity! We are accustomed to make our great annual festivities in summer, to match the rejoicing of the sun and the fruitfulness of the fields with our own warmth and feasting. But now we are here in this month of Fallowfield, met here for rejoicing. Do you ask why?"

And indeed, it seemed to Moll, watching from her post to the side of dais, that the assembled nobles were somewhat puzzled, but the reassuring warmth of Miraz' voice was visibly easing their tension.

Miraz continued. "Noble friends! Loyal bulwark of our state! We do not _need_ the sun – is not the warmth of your hearts and loyalty enough to lighten our Assembly? We do not need the fields' fruitfulness! Is not our great wealth abundant in store, as in the fields?"

There was a smattering of applause at this, from several knots of nobles scattered about the Chamber, applause which came loudest from the small group closest to the front, where Glozelle and Sopespian stood side by side.

"Is not winter more suited for festivities and rejoicing? Summer, which we have used to hold our court visitings and embassies, is a time for work. Winter is a time for resting, of quiet to be together, and therefore, _therefore_, I say, a meet season for meeting thus!"

The mild pun was met with more applause from the same nobles, placed, she thought now, strategically through the Chamber, to both encourage and monitor response. Miraz seemed to breathe in the laughter, to draw from it enormous pleasure and confidence; he almost laughed aloud, at the Court, extending his hands to them in appreciation of their appreciation of him; Moll had never seen him more jovial and paternal.

And at that point, there was a slight disturbance at the great entry – Moll's eyes flicked sideways, and she saw that a tall woman in a green travelling dress had emerged from the little knot of attendants at the doorway, to stand quietly, her eyes fixed on Miraz, listening. The Rough Lady.

Miraz likewise had noted her; he paused briefly, and something of the light died from his face. Then he continued with his speech – a set speech, evidently.

"_This_ is the season for rejoicing! Therefore, I have chosen _this_ season, _this_ time, to bring you two great reasons to rejoice! The first stands here before me, and will henceforward stand beside me!"

The Seneschal murmured to Moll, and she took the child's hand and walked him up the steps to stand him next to his uncle, dropping back herself into the shadow behind.

"Our next heir, have we ourselves, good friends, with your good will – and even supported by the voices of the lowliest of our subjects in the streets and markets – decided to give him the name, which now we first proclaim aloud, of … _**Caspian!**_ _**Prince Caspian!**_"

There were some gasps, but overall it was relief and delight which ran around the court, she was sure, transmuting quickly into enthusiastic applause. The child himself, habituated to his name by the Nursery use, looked up and out at the Assembly with a beaming smile, which in itself served to redouble the general delight. Moll felt her own heart warm to see how loved the child was, even as she felt a reluctant admiration for Miraz' (or Glozelle's?) political skill, to take a popular movement, forced on him, and claim it as his own initiative

The Rough Lady, she noted, was both surprised and elated; the three Gentlemen, surprised and wondering – as were many in the Chamber, even as they applauded. But Miraz did not leave them long to ponder his reasons for the announcement.

"Moreover, on this day, we have further reason to rejoice! Today I also announce a glorious day for Telmar – we have come far from our ancient land, to become rulers and happy settlers here. Kings and people, we have rejoiced in this land, and made Telmar's name greater in a new land. But is this the end of Telmar's conquests? Are we bounded here, or does our greatness drive on, and on?

A murmur from the assembled court.

"Look around you! You will see that seven of our greatest and boldest spirits, seven great Lords, great in valour and great in loyalty, are not among us!" He paused, and again she admired his skilful oratory, to force one question to drive out any others from the minds of his hearers. "They have gone to find and bring back greater glory for Telmar, that to her Narnian conquest may be added still other lands yet unknown!

"Lord Rhoop! Lord Marvramorn! Lord Bern! Lord Restimar! Lord Octesian! Lord Revilian – Lord Argoz! Each has been fitted out with a ship, crewed by Galman sailors, and well-provisioned, and they have gone from among us, not staying for the glory here, but hasting to catch the western winds before the river-ports freeze; they are content to receive your praise when they return, as they _will_ return, with a cargo of wonders from lands unknown to lay before you all!"

Several of the Lords, she noted, were glancing at each other uneasily. Runan was frowning. Miraz drove on, his voice surging to a new high.

"To lay before you all, _**for the greater glory of Telmar!**_"

Of course there was applause at that – who could be seen not to applaud? As before, he seemed almost to breathe in the applause, to grow from it. He smiled, a little grimly, rocking on his heels for an instant, and then seemed to dwindle again, coming down from high oratory to simple, warm welcoming.

"And now, my friends, loyal champions, paladins, nobles all, I and my Lady bid you to the first of the Great Winter Feasts of this our realm! Musicians!" and he turned to gesture imperiously, and a little theatrically, at the group waiting to one side.

"Stay! My Lord Protector!" It was Glozelle. "My Lord, Protector of this realm!"

"Lord Glozelle?"

"My Lord… you have given us great reason to rejoice. I come to ask a boon, not for myself alone, but for this whole realm.

"My Lord Protector, you have led us, and still lead us, to great wealth, and to glory! The succession of the country is secure – you have named our next heir, and we rejoice in that! This day is a great day, and rightly marked by claiming winter as the time of our feasts! But we ask that you make it greater still, that you give us one still greater reason to rejoice! We ask you, My Lord Protector, _will you not become our King?_"

He knelt, and almost instantly, Sopespian knelt beside him, and then from all corners of the Chamber, one or two at a time, came the little groups of nobles who had been quick to applaud earlier in the Assembly. They did not all come at once, but with an appearance of artless and impulsive decision – but to Moll's eye they were alert, aware, prepared. It was clearly, she assessed, a pre-determined plan, designed to elicit similar decision in the undecided.

Within a few breaths a good two-fifths of the nobles present also knelt – but still, three-fifths did not.

From her corner Moll watched, weighing the general support, and especially noting the reactions of those she knew best. Runan was startled and watchful, Arlian disturbed and unsettled; Erimon took half a step forward, then hesitated. The Rough Lady had not moved from her place by the door. She stood unmoving in the general stir, seeming rather amused than startled by the gambit; her face was lit by an appreciative – and gently sardonic – smile.

Miraz did not allow the petitioners to stay long on their knees. No sooner had it become clear that there was not overwhelming support than he shifted to a pleased, but protesting , almost remonstrating, posture.

"Good and loyal hearts! Rise, rise! A kingship is not a matter to be decided as swiftly as our seven brothers took their quest! A kingship – well we know," _how long, Moll wondered suddenly, had he been referring to himself as 'we'?_ "your love of this our realm, but though we are now in our time of winter rejoicing, we cannot make your joy complete by granting your petition. We will think on this, and give our answer at a later time! And now, musicians…"

"Wait, My Lord!" It was the Lady, moving with her strong, swift stride, bypassing the nobles as they began to straggle back to the edges of the room. "One other boon is asked, Lord Protector!"

Miraz sidestepped, perhaps preferring not to ask what it was she wanted. "We did not expect you to this assembly, my Lady."

"I am welcome, my Lord?" with the slightest of questioning tones, and the slightest of challenges in her smile.

"Yes, of course, welcome." – abruptly, impatiently, uneasily.

The Lady extended her hands, palm upward, as if to soothe his unease.

"It is true we live somewhat far from the usual route of the Court messengers."

To Moll, this was clear – and if so, then surely it was a coded message to the nobles? The Lady had not been told of the Assembly; Miraz had attempted to make his move in a hand-picked gathering, using his court base and without consulting the farther reaches of the realm.

"But as this is a time of asking boons, it seems, then I must also ask one of you!"

Miraz was fierce and wary. "Ask, Lady Drinia."

"My Lord, when you were young, as young as this Prince here, you came to live amongst us in the west. Your family held then to the long tradition that rulers should live with the ruled for some years as they grew, to bind kings and people more closely in bonds of love and loyalty.

His face had reverted to a hard sulkiness. "Your brothers made ill use of that bond, Lady."

"My Lord – you yourself have proclaimed them _not_ wanting in loyalty, but suffering a terrible disorder of the mind. I am convinced that you will not abandon these long-serving, truly loyal friends and comrades to hurt, whether of mind or body."

Oh, she was subtle! She caught him in his own lie, and challenged him now. Would he risk showing his divided court how cheaply he held loyalty and long love, now, when he most needed to demonstrate that loyalty to him would be rewarded?

"Therefore, My Lord, I ask this boon, that you will release to my care my disordered brothers, here in this town, where they may be seen by the best physicians and many good friends of yore, and afterwards if they be fit to travel, to travel back with me to my own estate, with such good other care as you decide."

So… she would have her brothers clearly seen, not kept immured where no-one could tell how they fared.

Miraz hesitated; he did well with a set speech, Moll decided, but lacked the quick thought to meet unexpected challenges.

If he lacked quick thought, another did not. In an instant, Glozelle had moved to his side. "My Lord, this is a private petition, not one for the whole Assembly. Perhaps it would be better to speak in private with the Lady?"

"Yes, we shall so do." Miraz looked with undisguised hostility at the Rough Lady. She swept a majestic acknowledgement, and withdrew. One savage look from Miraz, and the musicians struck up, and the Assembly moved into the formal squares and lines of the dance.

**ooooo**

By some arcane means, Moll noted, the word had already gone from the Great Audience Chamber to the further recesses of the Castle; evidently all the servants knew that the child had been formally Named as Prince Caspian and next heir. There were smiles and small obeisances on every side during the procession back, late that night. Dell did not speak when the Seneschal and guards escorted Moll and Prince Caspian through the door of the Nursery, but her eyes flicked to Moll's with sober satisfaction; she obviously believed that the outcome had been for good, and not ill. But perhaps she did not know of Glozelle's petition – that Miraz was making, tentatively, his move for the throne?

Moll realised it came down to plain politics now. The naming of the child – as far as Miraz knew, by the people themselves, unled – had spurred him to act a little sooner than planned, and without the Calormene backing. Without that backing, and having acted too soon to be sure of the total support of his nobles, he did not – yet! – dare to act decisively. His ambition was now surely plain to all – all who were left – but a petition from a courtier was not – not irretrievably – _his_ move. He could pull back, disassociate himself from the manoeuvre if it proved fruitless. However, it also disarmed response; to protest on behalf of Caspian's claim to the throne might seem to some premature, especially as Miraz could point to the Naming as a sign of his good intentions. So – how to best counter what must surely be coming: the court intriguing to build support for his move?

Still, that was a problem for another day; Moll set herself, dwarf-fashion, to seize the immediate opportunity, and not to thrash uselessly with problems which had no answer. Miraz' changing of the festive season to winter – though doubtless because he needed to act quickly – was also chosen, she thought, because Prismia feared to be in public during the time of the trees' quickening. Therefore, what better time to begin sowing some of the seeds of fear?

"I'm glad they're making winter the time to have the big feasts now," she began, in warm, comfortable tones, while undoing the fastening of the prince's little bright jacket. "It's better for him to be well tucked away on summer nights."

"Better for him to be tucked away any time this late," returned Dell, with her usual reserve, but Moll continued, as if simply rambling to fill the air with sound, as she undressed Prince Caspian to get him ready for bed.

"Summer's not a good time to be out at night, what with the trees in full leaf and all." The fine doeskin boots… the splendid tunic, off and folded and handed to Dell. "It's all right for you all, up here in the castle, but down in the town we used to hear… well…" the undershirt stripped off him, and his night-clothes wriggled over the top of his head – he was almost asleep as he stood on her lap, leaning heavily against her shoulder, " we heard enough to stay home those nights, anyway."

That was enough for a start, she thought, and while Dell did not respond, she knew enough now to know that the older maid had taken note

**ooooo**

_**From the files of the Listening and Recording Division, 26 Fallowfield, Year 212 since Conquest.**_

**Recorder:** Cornelius, son of Suprimius, late of Beruna Town Administration

**Location: **Tube 15, Guest Rooms

**The Lady Drinia:** My Lord! Good morning! It is good of you to come to me before noon, after so late a night.

**The Lord Miraz:** Lady. …. You _are_ welcome, Drinia.

**The Lady Drinia:** My thanks! And you have given him the name! Miraz, you have done well! Though… why not in summer, as custom calls? Kingship should be a summer matter, surely?

[Silence]

**The Lady Drinia:** Oh, come – we are not so separated from the children we once were that I can't show my joy, surely! This _one_ action is a good one.

**The Lord Miraz: **Matters are still … maybe in summer this will be clearer to you.

**The Lady Drinia: **In summer? Things are clear _now_, Lord Protector.

[Silence]

**The Lady Drinia: **I would advise, were I your advisor. But I am not.

**The Lord Miraz:** You say wisely. Will you walk with me in fresher air, Lady?

**The Lady Drinia: **But I beg you to choose your advisors wisely. The voices of flattery and cunning… Glozelle and Sopespian…

**The Lord Miraz: ** We won't talk of that here. You underestimate them as you have… we won't talk of that.

**The Lady Drinia: **Well, as you will… more importantly to me… my brothers! Miraz, where are they? You and I know they are not mad.

**The Lord Miraz:** Drinia, I was … you cannot know with what sorrow I …

They were accused of treason! You know I have not absolute power here

**The Lady Drinia: **Stars be praised! Absolute power is not for any man.

**The Lord Miraz: **If I had not called it madness they would be dead, Drinia.

**The Lady Drinia: **And it is not. We both know that. So where are they now, and will you release them to me? I think now the child is Named there need be no more conflict between you.

**The Lord Miraz: **Maybe. We will not speak of that here.

**The Lady Drinia: **So you said of the other matter.

[Silence]

**The Lady Drinia:** Then let us by all means go elsewhere to talk further. And I may see the child, Miraz?

[Silence]

**The Lady Drinia:** You will not deny me this. You know I love him as I love you.

**The Lord Miraz:** Come.

**ooooo**

Late in the afternoon Moll was summoned to bring the Prince to the battlements. He had been fractious all morning after his late night, and now was almost ready to sleep again. She hoped that Miraz did not want him to toddle along in their usual way, in that curious parody of a ruler's patrol on the castle walls; the day's warmth was ebbing fast, and he needed quietness and warmth.

Well, there was no help for it. She dressed him as warmly as she could, and wrapped him as well in a blanket stripped from her own bed. These battlement walks had not been called of late, since the winter chill had set in, and she did not want the child to suffer cold; if he were to fall ill in night air, she told herself, the Network's plan and all that had gone into it would be for nothing.

It was not Lord Miraz alone on the battlements; the Rough Lady was there as well. Both of them looked weary, and the air between the two of them was as tight as a bowstring with unspoken tension – or not spoken before Moll at any rate; she could only guess what had been spoken between them before she came. Miraz turned angrily away as she stepped out into the icy air, holding the child close, to keep him warm as long as might be.

"Here he is. Look at him and then…" He left the sentence unfinished.

The Lady was in front of her, and carefully lifting Prince Caspian from her arms, . She held him, looking very deeply and closely at him, and then stooping her head to breathe in his scent. He reached out sleepily and patted her cheek as she did so, and she closed her eyes, as if the better to feel his hand.

"Caspian. _Caspian_. Prince Caspian." Her voice was touched with wonder, as if she held something magical and precious. Miraz had turned his head, reluctantly, and was watching her, with some bitterness in his gaze.

Then she seemed to come down from some height of thought, and looked across to Moll.

"I have seen you before, I think, Nurse."

"Yes, Lady Drinia. I have been with Prince Caspian for two years now."

The Lady smiled – it was a somewhat distracted and wintry smile, but nonetheless real.

"May you stay with him many more years. I am convinced he is well served by you."

Moll glanced at Miraz. Though he stood apparently looking out towards the town, now, he was clearly listening closely. She bobbed her acquiescence.

"And also by the three fine Gentlemen of the Bedchamber." Now the Lady looked to Miraz, with an attempt at gaiety, seeming to invite him to laugh with her about the younger men. He certainly heard her, and responded, without turning from his survey of the land across the river, by a short, contemptuous exclamation.

"Tell them from me that I am sorry not to be able to see them on this visit, and that I hope for a better time soon." This was said with a quick spirt of resentful meaning, directed to Miraz. _So, she had wanted to speak herself with the Gentlemen, and been forbidden? _ Then the Lady went on, with more control and a return of her usual ease.

"Tell them that I send them my love, that I bid them to serve as loyally as they have ever done, and that I would they could join me when I next go hunting."

"You need not send messages by servants, Lady!" There was a dangerous edge to Miraz' tone.

"By whom else?" he did not answer, and she went on, baiting him, "I could not make the Lord Protector my messenger! And you have already told me that I shall see none but you or your…"

"Be careful, Drinia!"

She nodded, and returned to looking silently at Prince Caspian, who had begun to wriggle and struggle a little in her arms.

Miraz noted it, and raised his eyebrows to Moll to take back the child.

"You have seen him. Now you must go."

"Yes, My Lord." She delivered Caspian back into Moll's arms. "Farewell, until we meet again, little Caspian. I serve you as I have served all your family." Then, to Moll, very softly, under cover of adjusting the child's wrappings. "That _I would they could join me, when I next go hunting_."

Moll's eyes met the Lady's. She hardly knew what message the Lady drew from them, hardly knew what she would do with this message, but the Rough Lady was turning from her already. Clearly, it was time for the Prince, and the Prince's Nurse, to leave.

**ooooo**

**The long walk back to the Nursery **had never seemed so short. A Telmarine to ask of her, a Narnian… but the Rough Lady did not know she was Narnian. But to ask her to carry a message… and yet, what, after all, had she said? Nothing more than Miraz had heard her say. The Rough Lady had somehow put her, Moll, in the position of carrying a clandestine message to accomplices without giving any handle to be used against herself, if Moll had been minded to betray her.

And would her involvement, however trivial, in this unknown action to subvert in some way Miraz' rule – but _not_ Telmarine rule – help or hinder her own task? The Lady was certainly part of what might be called the Caspian faction within Telmar – a faction newly-born, from the giving of the name, and the manifesting of Miraz' ambition. (It was a faction, Moll realised, which had taken its sudden strength from her own actions.) But Moll was certain that her plotting with the Gentlemen – _if_ there was a plot, and not simply this one overture from her to them – was on behalf of her imprisoned brothers, not for Caspian's succession. And if the resistance to Miraz' treatment of the brothers meant that the Caspian faction became outlawed – could the passing of the message actually be damaging to the Cause? So… what now?

Even entering the Nursery, she was unsure. Pidda was there, setting out the evening meal for the Prince. The Gentlemen were there, too – Erimon and Runan silent at the table, Arlian looking out into the darkening winter sky. But not Dell – not Dell, who certainly had watchful eyes, and knew much more than she said. With only Pidda, present, and using some sort of conversation with the girl as a device, she might possibly… And it was no more than Miraz had heard already.

"Well, Pidda," she began, laboriously, into the girl's sulky silence. "I was just showing our Prince to the Lady of the Western Waste!"

Pidda ignored her, of course. The Gentlemen, however, all looked across.

"She was happy to see how strong he keeps on. She said she knew Prince Caspian was well served, by all of us, _and the Gentlemen_."

"Did she say _me_?" The first almost-friendly word Pidda had spoken for days!; her face was lit with a pitiable hope that the Lady had seen her as worth speaking of.

What a gift the Rough Lady had – those who saw her, even from a distance, like Pidda, loved her, and wanted her to love them. She made it seem a favour that she even noticed, or spoke to, someone. And she herself, Moll realised – what was she but one more of the same? Ugly, graceless, stony-hard Moll, she too had been _flattered_ by the trust of the Lady, flattered into taking the message.

"You do have Human blood" Cornelius had said. Yes, she gritted to herself, but of all the contemptible human signs, this one was the _most_ contemptible – to be open to flattery. But she had begun now, and what the Dwarf-brood begin, they finish. Did Cornelius remember _that_? Some Human blood, but she was _Dwarf-brood_!

"Yes, she said all us three servants, and the three Gentlemen as well. She said, she wished we would all – them too – _be as loyal in service as we had ever been_."

Arlian had turned away, as if this were simply platitude, but she felt Erimon's eyes on her, and Runan's. "She said _she wished the Gentlemen could go with her when next she went hunting._"

"She mentioned hunting?" It was Runan, but they were all listening; even Arlian had turned with a flash of interest to face briefly back into the room.

"Yes, Sir. She said she wished you could all go with her when next she went."

"Ah."

No word more, not to her, and not to each other. Erimon looked down at his own clasped hands, frowning – calculating, she guessed. Arlian breathed fast, his hands flat against the window-glass; his shoulders rose and fell. Then Runan stood, so quickly that his chair tottered. He caught it before it fell, balancing it on two legs, and glanced, humorously, with raised eyebrows, to the other two – neither met his eyes. Then he set it, very carefully straight and square-on to the table, nodded to Moll and to Pidda, and left.

The other two did not speak. After a while they left – first Arlian, then Erimon.

Pidda stayed, at first pretending to gather dishes, and redd up the table, and the room generally, but then clearly just loitering until she could catch Moll's eye. For her part, Moll concentrated on the Prince, until he was washed and abed, and there was no more avoiding Pidda's silent watching.

"Well, what is it?"

"Nothing. Just… you were _saying_ something to them, weren't you? Something from _her_."

"Nothing that wasn't for everyone to hear."

"You don't tell me anything." The voice was petulant; Moll gritted her teeth at this time-wasting, when she had much to think through, had to try to reassess her strategies within this divided court.

"There's nothing to tell. You heard what I said."

"You _never_ tell me anything. You think I'm stupid."

Moll hoped her face was schooled enough not to show her response to that. Possibly not, because Pidda's face tightened, and her voice began to waver between a whine and anger.

"You wouldn't tell me anything about the Lion, either."

"There's nothing to tell!"

"I'm not stupid! You wouldn't get so angry if there wasn't _anything_." Pidda pressed her hands hard up against her temples, half-covering her eyes; her voice came out muffled. "I've tried and _tried_ to be friends with you…"

There was nothing to say to that, and after a while Pidda went away.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

A/N: I'd like to say again how much I appreciate the reviews I've had - I'm very grateful for the words of encouragement, and for the eagle-eyed spotting of a misnaming! Other readers – I would _really_ like to hear what you think!


	12. Interrogation Part One

**Chapter 12: Interrogation: Part One.**

It was hard to sleep, but then she had often lain like this, lately. Dwarf-brood should be able to simply _decide_ to sleep, but of late this simple marker of heritage had slipped away from her. One _more_ marker. She stared into the darkness, without thinking, just feeling the stone-cold desolation inside her – and then suddenly knew she _was_ asleep, because she was no longer seeming to be in her narrow alcove-bed, but standing on a level dust-coloured plain, looking at the shaggy head, and slow-breathing side and mighty haunch of a huge Lion.

She knew well enough who he was, in the dream, and was angry at herself for dreaming, like a Human, and for having such worn-out fantasies cluttering her mind, as well. She waited, expecting that at any minute that the dream-Lion would speak, but he did not. His head was turned away from her, and she looked out to see what he was looking at, but just a little way away, the plain seemed to vanish into a grey mist, a nothingness. They seemed to stay like that for a long time. At last she began to open her mouth to speak to the Lion, since he would not speak to her, and found that she had no mouth to open, and no self, and then she seemed to dissolve into the grey mist, and the dream was gone, and she woke.

**ooooo**

It was a strange waking, and a strange morning to follow. She was barely dressed – had barely dressed Prince Caspian – when the door slammed open, and Glozelle erupted into the room, slamming open the door, rapidly surveying every alcove, even her own bed-nook. His unexplained, wordless anger seemed to echo out and fill the room.

The child was frightened, and began to breathe in quick, shallow, panicking breaths. His eyes widened and he looked to be on the verge of crying aloud; Moll gathered him up, and nestled his head into her shoulder, to muffle the cries, if they should come. Glozelle – she knew the signs – she had seen before Men on the verge of violence, when even the sound of a child crying could be taken as provocation for a beating. His quick, hard eyes took in what she was doing, and for an instant she feared that she had actually focussed and drawn down the impending violence; she swung her body around, shielding the child from the blows she expected.

But no blows came, just sharp, jeering words – "Very wise, Nurse! – and the sound of the door slamming shut, and he had gone.

It took her no little time to restore Prince Caspian's calm; he was getting old enough now to take in the some of what he saw, not to understand it, but to perceive wrongness and be shaken and afraid at his own helplessness. It would be a bad time, she reflected, for him to see doubt or fear in those around him, or to see pain.

None of the Gentlemen had appeared by the usual time. She did not doubt that Runan had gone after the Rough Lady, but the absence of the other two was unexpected. Pidda, too, had not come; it was Dell who brought the breakfast things. Her face was as closed and hard to read as it had ever been, so closed that Moll did not attempt conversation at all.

**ooooo**

_**From the files of the Listening and Recording Division, 27 Fallowfield, Year 212 since Conquest.**_

**Recorder:** Cornelius, son of Suprimius, late of Beruna Town Administration

**Location: **Tube 15, Guestrooms.

**Lord Arlian:** Glozelle! At last – I was thinking I was… Why have I been brought here?

**Lord Glozelle:** For your own sake, Arlian! For your own sake, and for the sake of your erstwhile fellows, you are all to be kept alone, that no-one can say that evil communications have passed from them to you, or from you to them. Be thankful it is the guest-quarters, and not the dungeons!

**Lord Arlian:** Dungeons! For pity's sake, Glozelle, what's going on?

**Lord Glozelle:** Oh, Arlian! For pity's sake indeed – You don't realise how much difficulty you are in, I think.

**Lord Arlian:** What difficulty? What is happening?

**Lord Glozelle:** Arlian, I know well it is not you who are at fault here, but you have been indiscreet – or rather – too discreet, I think.

**Lord Arlian:** What do you mean? I have done nothing amiss!

**Lord Glozelle:** You've done nothing at all, I imagine. Arlian, your fellows – Erimon and Runan. Why did you not tell us of their plottings?

**Lord Arlian:** Plottings? We have not plotted!

**Lord Glozelle:** You have not – but Arlian, can you say with confidence that they have not? They have murmured much against the Lord Protector, have they not?

**Lord Arlian:** A little – they did complain – but no plotting!

**Lord Glozelle:** And what were their complaints? They accused the Protector of doing his duty ill, did they not?

**Lord Arlian:** No…

**Lord Glozelle:** Come, come… you have said they complained. You do not need to protect those who have not scrupled to blame you for their crimes.

**Lord Arlian:** Their crimes? They have accused me? Of what?

**Lord Glozelle:** What have they said of the Lord Protector?

**[Silence]**

**Lord Glozelle: **Arlian, I know you have a loyal heart – and you are loyal to your fellows as well as to this realm. But believe me, we cannot clear your difficulty here until you are open with me. Loyalty is a wonderful quality, but you must be very, very careful to whom you give it.

**Lord Arlian: ** To Telmar, of course!

**[Silence]**

**Lord Arlian: ** To our Prince.

**[Silence]**

**Lord Arlian: ** To the Lord Protector.

**Lord Glozelle:** Very good. But I know your warm heart, Arlian. You have also felt strong loyalties to your old horse-masters, and to their sister, I think. And you certainly feel strong loyalties to your fellows, there in the Nursery-chamber.

**[Silence]**

**Lord Glozelle:** Arlian, I say this as one who has watched you long and wished you well. The time has come to choose your loyalty very carefully. Your fellows are trying to save their miserable hide by accusing you of their own disloyalties.

**[Silence]**

**Lord Glozelle:** Tell me – you have said you are loyal to Telmar, and to our Prince, and to our Lord Protector –but they, those two, are not as loyal, are they? They have doubts and questions, and they have shared these with you.

**[Silence]**

**Lord Glozelle:** I think you might as well tell me what we know already, Arlian. They have doubts and questions.

**Lord Arlian:** Some.

**Lord Glozelle:** And they have talked to each other before you, I know. You have heard them say things you hesitate to repeat, for fear it will go hard with your old companions. Believe me, I value this loyalty in you, but believe me, too, that you need now to show equal loyalty to Lord Miraz.

**[Silence]**

**Lord Glozelle: **You need to show loyalty now, Arlian. What did they say of him?

**Lord Arlian:** Only what has been said before! That he had the Brothers declared mad to shut up their voice for the Prince.

**Lord Glozelle:** Ah! Yes, said before. By others of your circle in the court. Lord Mavramorn was always quick to speak. But also…

**Lord Arlian:** Oh, Lord Chenzil… his friends. Not Erimon more than the rest.

**Lord Glozelle:** But Lord Runan more than the rest, I imagine. Tell me what he said about going with the woman Drinia.

**Lord Arlian:** He didn't say anything!

**Lord Glozelle:** But you knew he was going?

**Lord Arlian:** We guessed.

**Lord Glozelle:** And where was he going? What was their plan?

**Lord Arlian:** I don't know. To rescue her brothers, I suppose.

**Lord Glozelle:** But her brothers… they also had spoken against the Lord Protector to you three. I imagine that they found willing listeners in Erimon and Runan.

**Lord Arlian:** Yes, but we didn't … They came in and talked, but we didn't…

**[Silence]**

**Lord Glozelle:** Take your time, Arlian. You need to remember precisely what was said. We need to defend you, Arlian, against these vile accusations.

**Lord Arlian:** What accusations? Who accuses me?

**Lord Glozelle:** Why, Lord Erimon and Lord Runan, of course. They accuse you of treason.

**ooooo**

Shortly after breakfast, the servants' door opened and Dell and Pidda were bundled in, and came to sit near Moll close to the fire. She could see through the door that a guard was stationed on either side; as the two woman stumbled past them they crossed pikes, to block the exit. Moll did not need to open the other door to be sure that it, too, was guarded.

In any case, she was not left to think about it. The main door opened, and Sopespian entered, along with three guards; two others stationed themselves outside. He seemed ill-at-ease, and uncertain, but the more sharp and determined for that.

"Stay still, all of you. This is the business of Telmar and the Lord Miraz." He hesitated just an instant, then turned angrily to the men, as if they had delayed him. "Well? Begin the search!"

The guards looked apologetically – at Dell, especially, but also to Pidda and Moll. Nevertheless, they began a quick, thorough ransack of the Nursery. Moll knew from the moment they had begun it that the paper would be found, and quickly. It was only a few minutes before one of the guards spoke, quietly enough…

"My Lord?"

Sopespian crossed the room quickly – he took the paper, and scanned it, before stowing it inside his jacket.

"You've done well. Continue." His gaze returned to the group by the fire; his mouth tightened, and he visibly braced himself for an unwelcome task.

"We also need to…"

A body-search. Moll felt a wash of relief that she had not kept the paper on her own person, that she had tucked it under the mattress. They might suspect, but they could not know, not yet.

He crossed to Moll, and plucked Prince Caspian unceremoniously from his place on her lap. The little boy twisted in his arms, and kicked, vigorously, holding out his arms to come back to her; Sopespian handed him across to a guard, and then nodded to Dell.

"Take her first." He meant Pidda. Dell seemed to know what was wanted, to be acting almost as a kind of matronly handmaid for the search; under her silent direction, one by one, they stripped to their shifts, held out their arms and slowly rotated, to demonstrate nothing was hidden on their bodies.

The child was by now shrieking angrily, and struggling hard to get back to Moll; it was as much as the guard could do to hold him. Moll was grimly satisfied that he should be disrupting the search, and destroying the guards' attempted assertion of control in the Nursery, and also – it was good to note that this biddable child _could_ assert his will at need! Sopespian, too, seemed distracted, unable to be completely focussed on his scanning of their bodies. He turned over their clothes at the point of his sword, shaking them out in a perfunctory way, then jerked his head back towards the fireplace. They gathered up their clothes and sat back down, Moll and Dell tugging on such garments as went most easily, Pidda huddling in on herself, with her arms folded tight across her breasts.

The search did not last much longer – the last corners of the cupboard, the underneath of the shelf running around Moll's bed-nook, a practised hand checking the window-frame, particularly where Arlian had gouged at it. The man who seemed to be the leader of the guards approached Sopespian, and murmured to him, glancing at the fireplace, but Sopespian shrugged. Moll surmised that having found the paper, he was eager to take it back to Miraz for his approbation.

And that was it. The guard who held Prince Caspian approached awkwardly, even apologetically, and handed him over to Moll. Sopespian sharply ordered them all to stay in the Nursery – _small choice in that, with the guards at each door!_ – and left.

**ooooo**

It was a long day. Pidda was excited and anxious, and showed it by moving restlessly around the room, and addressing random, covertly spiteful remarks to Moll and Dell, indiscriminately. Dell did speak, but only briefly, and on severely practical matters. It was she who arranged to have food and drink brought in, and dealt with the usual housekeeping matters, through an intermediary who spoke through the guarded doorway. Other than that, she seemed to be trying not to have any communication at all, with either of the others.

Moll busied herself with Prince Caspian, attempting to distract him with smiles and light chat, to make this strange and frightening day seem like any other day. Possibly this might be the last day she had with him, possibly they might jump to connect her with the letter. She had not even had time to scan it herself, and did not know how compromising it might be – though Grattandrack – he was the most experienced of their Cell – he would know how to so phrase any document…

She shook her mind free of these entanglements. _Today_ was the day she had to work with the child, possibly her last day. She would make it count. So she took him to the table and they sat, both together, squeezed into one of the Gentlemen's own armchairs, while she told him the gentlest and most sunlit stories she knew, to wind a love of Narnia and its people around his heart as strongly as she could, while she had the time.

She told him no stories of conflict or struggle, no mention of pain. If she read the signs right, there would be pain enough to come, for the missing Gentlemen already perhaps, and possibly for herself as well, by nightfall. So it was gentle songs, and stories of the glories and loveliness and kindliness of Old Narnia: she sang the Basketweavers' song, and the river-folks' song; she told of the swift, flashing grace of the river-naiads, and of the stalwart, canny Beavers who shared the rivers with them – whispering to him the old question: _"...and they are your...?"_, swooping irresistibly to kiss him at the answer:_ "cous'ns!"_. She told of the foaming tumult of the Caldron Pool, and how Moonwood the Hare, sitting by that pool, under the thundering waterfall which fed down the waters from the western wild, could hear the lightest whisper even away as far as the coasts of the Eastern Sea.

("Fairy-stories!" Pidda jeered, but quietly – her malice was for Moll alone, not to upset the child.)

She told him of the Beasts, of the dauntless solidity of the Talking Bears of the North, and the rippling, silent grace of a wolfpack in full run through the snowbound forest (_"and they are your…?" "cous'ns!" "yess!"_), sang again his own old seafarer's lullaby (_"fear not, seafarer…"_). She looked out to the grey empty sky, and told of the brightness of the unseen Narnian stars, and how to the wise they showed the story of what was happening in the ancient land below. She looked into the blank winter day outside, and span for him stories of the feasts of midsummer, when glowing fruits – the smooth-skinned apple, the velvet peach, the many-jewelled pomegranate – and berries of all kinds, and nuts, joyous with colour and life, tumbled across the vine-wreathed board, past bowls of smooth creams and curds, and mazers of rich wines and juices, and all Narnia laughed for joy…

All _Old_ Narnia, the land that she herself had never seen. She paused, wondering if there could really ever have been this land that the Resistance held, as a matter of passionate faith, could come again. Prince Caspian looked up enquiringly, and she smiled reassuringly, and began to chant softly for him the opening words of oldest song-tale of all: "Narnia, oldest of lands, loveliest of lands, sprung from the singing…'

"Oh, loveliest of lands!" Pidda repeated, mockingly. "Like _you_ care about anything lovely! Like _you'd_ know anything about anything!"

Moll leant her head down on the child's head and did not answer. He needed not to see pain, and he needed not to hear anger, especially not now, when maybe this was the last day she would spend with him. _Let his last memories of these Narnian tales be of harmony and gentleness._

"Oh go on with your stupid story, then! I couldn't care."

Moll let a few quiet breaths pass, and then took up her tales again... the exquisite delicacy of the dragonflies darting over the pools of the Great River, the warm, round, busy foraging of the Ducks, (_"and they are your…?" "cous'ns!" "yess!"_), the casket of a thousand pearls…

**ooooo**

Towards the end of the day, the door opened again, and Glozelle came in, alone. He moved softly, and smiled benignly at the three servants. It was as if he were a different man entirely from the one who had crashed in so violently early that morning. Did he really think she had forgotten his furious, snarling entry just half a day back, Moll wondered? It seemed so. He gestured to her, to move away from the table, and back with the other two. When they were all gathered near the fire, he seated himself on the edge of the table, one leg swinging in easy fashion.

"I suppose it has been a long day for you all, here?"

None of them answered him, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly, still smiling, to prod them into response, his eyes glancing from one to another of them all, but resting last on Moll. She kept her eyes hesitantly on his own – to look away completely was to look guilty, to look too constantly looked presumptuous, and either could be dangerous. She did not speak, though; two years had taught her that though she was, in the formal Nursery hierarchy, Dell's superior, in matters of the Court and the castle, it was better to cede any leadership to her junior. She let Dell answer for them all.

"Yes, Lord Glozelle."

"And maybe confusing?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Yes. We are in sad and confusing times. You three have been the closest carers for our young prince, and we of the Court are grateful for your care…

"But – sadly – those others who have been living here with you, who have pretended likewise to care for him… you, and we, have been deceived in them. Those men… they forgot the good of the realm because of their own ambition. They have wanted to use our Prince for their own ends. And I fear – I fear very much – that they have used you, as well, perhaps."

A little silence – all three of them sat very quiet and watchful, and Glozelle seemed to be thinking. After a few minutes he glanced across to Moll, still cradling Caspian close to her.

"Put the Prince to bed. I will wait."

Moll obeyed without speaking, other than the little words of bathing and settling the child; his lullaby she crooned without words, stroking him softly until he fell asleep.

Glozelle had been watching. As soon as the prince was definitely asleep he jerked his head to indicate that she should return to the fireside. She did so, feeling oddly naked to have empty arms again – she had been holding the child close for most of the day.

He gave her some minutes to resettle, frowning a little, and looking down at his own dangling, booted foot. Then without looking up, he began again to speak, quite slowly, in soft, earnest-seeming tones.

"Those three men, who were here with you in this Nursery every day, have been, unknown to us all, acting against the realm, in a pretence that they were acting for the rights of our Prince here. They were trying, despicably, to make a division between the Prince's good, and his uncle's good, and I fear very much that," his voice tightened, "you have been drawn into their plot.

"I have not forgotten," His head jerked up and he was suddenly staring with frank hostility at Pidda, "whose voice I first heard give the kingly name to the Prince."

Panic flashed across Pidda's face. Watching Glozelle, Moll thought that he was like Miraz in this – as Miraz had seemed to breathe in the applause of the nobles, so Glozelle seemed to breathe in, and feast on, the girl's fear.

But only briefly. As a cat might play with a mouse, and let it go for future pleasure, he turned from Pidda, and looked directly at Dell.

"But those who plot treachery to the realm… they are treacherous to their friends, too. Those quondam Lords who were here with you have been very quick – oh, _very_ quick! – to tell us that this business of the name began with _you_, the longest-serving attendant here."

Dell's face did not change one line, but Pidda breathed in sharply, a small, panicky gasp, as if she was about to speak. She thought better of it when Glozelle raised a quieting hand.

"I don't condemn you for this – we don't condemn any of you. Your long service, _your_ youth and innocence, _your_ rustic simplicity – we do not leap to class you with schemers and traitors." _How many times would he play this trick, Moll wondered, shifting ground so that they did not know if they were under suspicion or not?_ "But you can see that it puts you in a very difficult position now that it is clear that those men, in whose schemes you became a pawn, were designing all this time to get close to the Prince, and eventually to seize power for themselves."

"I see no difficulty, my Lord." Dell's voice was calm.

"No? A paper was found in this Nursery this morning – a paper clearly outlining treachery to the realm through an attack on the authority of our Protector. Now, until we know whose that paper was, all of you…"

…_are under suspicion_, Moll finished, in her own mind.

But Glozelle left the sentence hanging, waited a few heartbeats, then began again.

"You saw us find a letter, hidden in the prince's own bed. It was a traitor's letter. So we are asking you three: _who has been here in this room_ – say, since the Appearance?"

Their silence now was from complete confusion; it was not easy to think back through the months and years. Glozelle, nodded, calmly, sure of himself and his proceeding.

"Yes, I know this will take a while. One of you will need to take some notes. You – Dell, isn't it? I think you are the best to help us here."

"I cannot write, my Lord."

"No? not at all?"

"No, my Lord. I know the castle and I know my duty and that's all I need to know."

"Very good!" and he reached out and ruffled her hair – as if she were a child, thought Moll, sourly, though the maid was a good ten years older than he. She hoped, gritting her teeth, that she would be able to look properly gratified if he should do the same by her.

Still, she noted, with some reluctant admiration, his efficiency – clearly, under cover of asking for information of one kind, he was gathering other information altogether. Better, in this case, to be unable to write. She would follow Dell's lead.

"Then… you, Nurse."

"I can't write either, my Lord."

"Yes, she can!" It was Pidda's voice, sharp with spite and daring. "She said so! Dell, you remember! She asked about the library."

"The library, Nurse?" Glozelle's eye were suddenly very sharp. "What interest did you have in the Library?"

"I took Prince Caspian to see the pictures, my Lord – I went with the Lord Protector. I only looked at the pictures." And _that_, at least was true – half-true. But as she threw him that distraction, she was searching her mind, calling up every telling word she might have said to Pidda. She could not afford to be caught in another lie.

"Ah." He was checked, but returned again to his probing. "Nonetheless, it is good that you can write. Unusual in a nurse. You will take the notes here for us."

It took all her strength to keep her voice unhurried, as like Dell's as she could manage, while she trod among precipices of doubt. She _thought_ she knew what she had said, all those months ago.

"I can _read_, my lord, enough to read recipes for cures, if they're needed. But I can't write."

Glozelle looked hard at her, then suddenly, in two quick strides, was across the room, grabbing her, dragging her to the window, pushing her up against the glass. He scrutinised her closely, by the fast-fading fading light of the dying day. She was genuinely puzzled now, and must have shown that in her face, because his suspicions seemed to ebb, though his grip remained strong.

He still had hold of her when there came a sound of movement in the corridor outside, and the triple clash of the pikes, in salute. Miraz.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

A/N: Phew! That was tough! I felt like I was grinding the words out in a hand-powered coffee-mill. I've had to split the interrogation part in two.


	13. Interrogation Part Two

I don't, of course, own the characters of Miraz or Doctor Cornelius or the Nurse - though I have given her a name - nor of most of the Telmarine nobility; I am very, very grateful to C.S. Lewis for Narnia. And cheers to Pauline Baynes for the illustrations, too.

**ooooo  
**

**Chapter 13: Interrogation - Part Two.**

_**From the files of the Listening and Recording Division, 29 Fallowfield, Year 212 since Conquest.**_

**Recorder:** Cornelius, son of Suprimius, late of Beruna Town Administration

**Location: **Tube 15, Guestrooms.

**Lord Arlian: **Erimon! What is going on? What was that letter about? Was it from the Rough?

**Lord Erimon: **You were always stupid, Arlian. Did it sound like the Rough?

**Lord Arlian: **You've seen it? I haven't seen it. Who was it from? Was it yours?

**Lord Erimon:** No. I did not have a chance to study the thing; they held it in front of me, but wouldn't let me take it into my hands. What I saw were a few phrases about 'usurping rule' and 'spring again' and 'friendship'. But Arlian… you were always stupid.

[Silence]

**Lord Arlian:** What do you mean? What aren't you saying?

**Lord Erimon:** Why do you think they've put us together?

[Silence]

**Lord Erimon:** There are two possible reasons, Arlian. It is possible that they are using the other room to interrogate some other innocent, loyal subject.

**Lord Arlian:** And the other?

[Silence]

**ooooo**

**Glozelle was still** holding her against the window as Miraz strode in.

"_What_ under all the stars do you think you're _doing_, man?" The tone was both astounded and jeering, as if Glozelle had been detected in an extraordinary stupidity – astounded, jeering and condescending.

"My Lord," Glozelle sounded both flustered and resentful. "I was … checking…"

"Skies above! Have you no eyes? A lump, a _clod_ like that? Don't be ridiculous!" Glozelle dropped Moll as if she burnt him; his eyes, as well as his quick retort, showed his resentment.

"We cannot all have your intimate knowledge of such matters, my Lord."

It was said silkily enough, but a savage glance passed between the two men. _Stupid in Miraz_, Moll assessed automatically, to treat his underling with disdain and thus breed resentment – it did not augur well for his leadership, if he did succeed in taking the kingship from the child sleeping not fifteen feet from where he stood. And it was only then, as she mechanically noted the Protector's folly, that she realised as well Glozelle's folly – what it was that Glozelle had been checking for, holding her in the last weak rays of the sun, and surging through her tension she felt a triumphant joy and confidence in the eventual victory of the Cause. They were so laughably ignorant about themselves, and about the Narnians they hated; whatever happened to her today, such multiple stupidities must fail at last.

"And what have you found thus far, then? Do we know who left the letter, and for whom?"

"Not yet. I have put the two in one chamber, in hopes they will … But here, now, I was asking for a telling of all who had been in these apartments since the Appearance, my Lord."

"Good… and?" His gaze shifted from Glozelle to Moll, and she hastily gathered her thoughts, and listed all those she could think of: the Gentlemen, Miraz himself and Prismia, the Rough Lady, Glozelle, the servants.

"No-one else?" He looked across to Dell for confirmation. "Well, few enough! You lead a quiet life here."

This was directed to Dell, and she answered with a bob of her head, as a kind of seated curtsey.

"Yes, my Lord."

He looked at her, as if he was distracted for a moment from the business in hand. "Do you never chafe, Dell?"

"No, my Lord." She spoke firmly; she almost seemed to rebuke Miraz, in the look she directed at him.

"You are a strange woman. You have surrendered much for your loyalty to your lady."

Miraz paused for some minutes; he was obviously thinking through what Dell's loyalty might mean. Moll too, wondered; it seemed that Dell was – or had once been – someone of more importance in the castle than she had imagined.

"Well, Lord Glozelle – leave that pair for the night, to reflect. Tomorrow we can take things …"

Another sentence left hanging. Moll noted that he was now giving Glozelle his title; he had remembered – because of Dell? – that the servants listening might still be significant players in the complex game of castle politics.

"And – " He frowned as at some petty duty remembered in the midst of more important things.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Tomorrow will be Chillbone. We must find a better name for a month that will hold the greater winter festivities!"

"Yes, my Lord. Something to foreshadow the well-earned delights and diversions of our leisure-time. But perhaps we should leave the change until after the well-earned executions?"

"Yes. Well-put. Well thought of. Do it. So… Dell."

Dell had risen now, and answered only by a curtsey. Miraz was looking at her keenly. Glozelle stepped to his elbow and murmured, "She cannot write, my Lord – it seems none of them can."

"We did not imagine that the letter was written by any of these. It was in a fine, clerkly hand. But delivered, perhaps… We must ask you all. Have you ever seen anyone attempt to pass a letter to any of the Gentlemen here?"

One by one they denied it, Pidda last, and with a hesitation which caught Glozelle's eye.

"Well? What else have you to say? Did you ever see this letter before?"

"N..no, Your Lordship."

"Then – what? Out with it!"

"Just… just… _she_ was giving them a message! She covered it up, but she gave them a message!"

"A message?" Moll felt a sudden knotting in her entrails as those hard eyes swiveled to her.

"From that Lady! The Rough. She said yesterday…"

She would not wait to be questioned. Innocence would speak out, and so would she, ignoring Glozelle and speaking directly to the Protector. "My Lord Miraz… I gave the message she spoke on the battlements, to stay loyal, to serve, and something about hunting! You heard the whole message!"

Miraz had not taken his eyes from Pidda, and did not acknowledge Moll's right to speak or what she had said. But his face, as she watched, showed very plainly the progression of his thoughts as he took in what she had said, as he remembered the exchange – had it really just been yesterday? – and realised that there had indeed been a coded message there. But if _he_ had not known it…. his eyes flicked to her, and she slackened her jaw a little, drooped her chin, just a fraction, to look more stupid, to push him to the right conclusion… if _he_ had not seen it for a coded message to join her in her quest, then how could _this_ insignificant servant?

And she watched his face further and saw in his clenched jaw the chagrin he felt at finding he had himself been a bystander, a witness, in the passing of the message which had been more than it seemed on the surface. It found vent in some petulant impatience with the person who had made him aware of it. He lifted his chin as he spoke sharply to Pidda.

"You speak up well, girl – good! Always tell what you see. But this time you have not shown us a traitor."

He turned away then, to speak privately with Glozelle, low but not below Moll's hearing.

"Yes, that was the message which has sent Runan off on his adventure, I am sure. These have been just pawns, as you said. But in whose deep game I am not sure. Have we begun to collect the kin of those three, the 'brothers and cousins' addressed in the letter?"

Glozelle evidently knew better than to call attention to Miraz' own obtuseness. "Yes, my Lord. Kin and close friends, to pick up those with 'ties of blood and friendship', as it says. About a dozen all told."

"Good. This is a tedious business. I shall be glad when it is over."

Glozelle did not answer, though his eyes flickered. Moll guessed that he found more interest in the bullying and torturing of suspects that Miraz did.

"I will leave that side of it to you. Meanwhile, there is another side which I must look to here."

"My Lord."

**ooooo**

**After Glozelle had left,** Miraz stood thinking a little while longer, and then began to speak.

"Dell, you have great influence among your fellows, have you not?" Again the silent assent.

"The Prince needs you, Dell, to build for him a stable, secure kingdom, that he may step into his place when the time comes. And you have the choice whether to put your influence to work _for_ him, or _against_ him."

Dell's head snapped up, her eyes blazing. She did not speak, but her eyes spoke for her, that she was on fire at the bare suggestion that she could work against the Prince. He smiled; he had his quarry in site now, and was confident that he could run it down.

"Just as this one," he gestured to Moll, "has had the responsibility of feeding and caring for the Prince's body, you all – you servants – have the responsibility of caring for his realm, and for the proper running and order of it. Do you understand?'

"Yes, my Lord." Her eyes were cautious. She surely sensed, as Moll did, that there was more to come.

"A realm does not run by its nobles alone. We all make this state, this order, together. This is why Telmar has nobles, to think and to rule and to protect the land, and why we have you servants and workers to support us in that, and the realm has farmers to provide food, and merchants to bring trade..." He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"And a realm _must_ have a king. It must have a king who is strong, and ready to lead councils, or to lead armies. Now, Dell… you are the longest-serving servant here."

"Yes, Lord Miraz. I've been here since I was eight years old. I remember Caspian the Seventh."

"You saw this castle when it was new?" He was mildly teasing her, bantering her. Surely they had known each other well at some time in the past, Moll thought, in some close, easy relationship.

"No, my Lord." And she smiled a little.

"No, I suppose not." He became serious again. "But do you know, though – was Caspian the Seventh the son of Caspian the Sixth?"

"No, my Lord." Then, as he waited, "He was not."

"No. He became the king because he married the Lady Miraspia. Kingship comes in many ways, most often to the oldest son of the king before, _but not always_."

He caught a startled gasp from Pidda, and turned briefly to her, but still with hard eyes for the one who had made him aware that he, too, could blunder.

"We don't look for high politics in the servants' hall, girl. You don't need to concern yourself with such matters. Service and loyalty is your business, and you do best to show it in silence."

Then, turning once more to Dell, "Dell, your loyalty is unquestioned. I know well that in joining in the business of the name, you simply wanted the little prince to have his honour and his due - yes?"

Again, a wordless assent, but Dell's face was down, and Moll thought she was in tears. _For good or ill_, she had said. Moll wondered which it was – and which Dell now thought it had been.

"I respect you for that. But understand this: that you were _duped_ and _used_ in that business. Not one of you three is under suspicion of anything more than having been used by others in their schemes, but note this well – what they used to lead you astray, in their malicious cleverness, was your own strong desire to serve.

"They seemed to give you a simple way to serve the Prince; in falling into their trap of _simple duty_ you have left the way open for their treachery, and much sorrow will come from that. That sorrow is not your concern; I take the sorrow on myself, and the hard duties which follow from it. I call you to another duty, still to serve the prince, but a less simple way to serve him.

"Listen to me closely: Kingship comes in many ways, but it comes most safely to a realm when it comes to a strong man, who is able to lead councils and armies. It comes most safely when it comes _with the full consent and support of the nobles of the realm_."

_Can they not see, _she wondered, _ how he is shifting and changing the meanings of words as he speaks? Does even he see it himself?_

"It may be that your nobles, those responsible for the care and safety of Telmar in Narnia, will call for a temporary change in the kingship of the realm.

"If they should do so, know that your best service to the Prince will be to serve silently, supporting those whom the nobles place in power above you. Kingship comes most safely when it comes with the full consent and support of the nobles. Do not doubt me here… if there is division in the nobility, it divides the kingdom, and _a divided kingdom will certainly fall._ If any should divide the nobility, against the chosen king, they imperil this Prince's heritage."

All the time, his voice had been becoming more and more somber, more compelling. Now it was solemn, as if he were asking a most binding oath on most sacred matters.

"We must _all_ keep the kingdom safe for this Prince when his time comes. We must all serve as we are called, whether to be king, or to be servant. Dell, you have much influence in this castle." He put his hands on her shoulders, looking down at the unresponsive top of her head. "Will you use it for the Prince in this, to ensure a strong kingdom will be ready for him, when the time comes for him, in his turn, to assume his crown? Will you support him by supporting the legitimate rule of the nobles, and the king they proclaim?"

Dell lifted her face to him, tear-streaked, but utterly resolute, and not a little challenging.

"Yes, Lord Miraz. You will have my support as King, and I will use my strength as best I may to see that the servants of this castle serve you loyally, 'to ensure a strong kingdom will be ready for him, '_when the time comes_', as you have said, for Prince Caspian to make good the promise of his kingly name."

He half-smiled, but did not comment on either her blunt assertion that he himself was seeking the kingship, or her hint of future possibilities. "Your own support now, and to use your strength to bring the loyal service of the humbler castle workers is all I ask. You others, I call on you to support Dell in this, in every way she asks of you. I have your word?"

Moll gave it without hesitation – she could not boggle at a false oath when she had been living a false life for two years! – and Pidda murmured something affirmative; it seemed to satisfy the Protector.

"Good. I fear you will have an uncomfortable night together, We cannot let you leave this room until we have all the traitors safe, but tomorrow you will be free to go back to normal ways."

He was clearly finished with them, and they all sank low in farewell.

**ooooo**

**It was an uncomfortable night** in more ways than one. Moll decided without words to join Caspian in his child's bed, and leave her own narrow alcove to the other two. There was very little talk between them. Dell had returned to her normal capable, managing, taciturn self – a supper came to them, and they ate in near-silence. Pidda did not meet her eyes at all, and seemed ashamed, though whether of speaking or of her blow having gone astray was not clear.

The next morning was similarly constrained, and it was a relief when, as promised, by late in the afternoon – the first of Chillbone – Pidda and Dell were silently given to understand that they might leave.

**ooooo**

_**From the files of the Listening and Recording Division, 1 Chillbone, Year 212 since Conquest.**_

**Recorder:** Cornelius, son of Suprimius, late of Beruna Town Administration

**Location: **Tube 15, Guestrooms.

**Lord Glozelle:** Get up.

**Prisoner Arlian:** Glozelle! Can you end this nightmare ? We have been kept here on mistaken grounds. That letter – neither of us knows anything about it.

**Lord Glozelle:** Get up. The time has come to be very plain. This letter – three of you were constantly in the room where it was found. All three of you conspired with the woman Drinia, and one made an attempt to join her in subverting the rule of this realm. And – most interestingly – not one of you three stood with me three days since, when I petitioned to strengthen that rule, under a wise and experienced leader.

**Prisoner Erimon:** Glozelle, I swear we know nothing of this; had you continued one minute longer I would have joined you, but Miraz –

**Lord Glozelle:** Lord Miraz!

**Prisoner Erimon:** Lord Miraz spoke too quickly; I would have joined you in just a few seconds more.

**Lord Glozelle:** Too late, Erimon. Can you not see that there is no sign at all that any of you are committed to the safety of this realm? On the contrary, you all three stand in very great danger of seeming like traitors. If you want to save your hide now, tell me everything you know about this letter.

**Prisoner Erimon:** I can only guess it was Runan's… I haven't properly read it.

**Lord Glozelle:** It was written without names. But I think you know that.

**Prisoner Arlian:** We don't know anything, Glozelle.

**Lord Glozelle**: Lord Glozelle. Call me Lord Glozelle, Lord Arlian. Lord Arlian. For a little while yet I will call you Lord, Arlian.

**Prisoner Erimon:** I was on the edge of joining you in the petition. It was Runan who stopped me.

**Lord Glozelle:** What a pity you were guided by him. The letter is very clearly written against that most legitimate and loyal petition, which it apparently sees as the beginning of a '_usurping rule_', forsooth! And written in the most false, frenzied incendiary words… it is clear treason even in its words alone.

**Prisoner Arlian:** We know nothing of all this. I have never even read the letter.

**Lord Glozelle:** You have already told me of the murmurings against Lord Miraz, Arlian, and this is so very clearly more of the same. '_We have suffered this long, and have seen too many deaths and exiles_.' Of whose deaths do you accuse Lord Miraz? Whose absence do you call '_exile_'? Do you mean Mavramorn and his fellows? And this! Do you and your fellows call Miraz' protectorship '_oppression_'? I think you will find that his kingship will make you groan for that 'oppression'!

**Prisoner Erimon**: You are very open now, Glozelle.

**Lord Glozelle:** Why not? He will certainly be king now. When we can show the Court, that naming this baby-Caspian has brought forth this long-plotted treason – this treason so bold that it attempts to suborn the innocent through such a letter – they will beg for a strong leader, a man who will take the reins and drive this horse of state as unmercifully as ever your hunting jade drove hers.

**Prisoner Arlian:** Thank the heavens you know us to be innocent, Glozelle.

**Lord Glozelle:** Yes. When you have signed this to say that you received the letter innocently, not knowing what it contained, all should be well.

**Prisoner Erimon: ** Don't sign it, Arlian.

**Lord Glozelle:** Sign it, and you can be taken to more suitable accommodation, Arlian.

**Prisoner Erimon:** Don't sign it Arlian. I will never sign anything, Glozelle.

**Lord Glozelle:** The last time you made a choice, Erimon, you chose wrongly.

[Silence]

**Prisoner Erimon:** You were always stupid, Arlian.

**Lord Glozelle:** Thank you, Arlian. And now I think you have cluttered the guest apartments long enough. Take him below.

**Prisoner Arlian:** Glozelle. Glozelle.

**Lord Glozelle:** Take him away.

**Prisoner Arlian**: I will tell them all that you have…

**Lord Glozelle:** Oh… oh… but when will you tell them, Lord Arlian?

[Silence]

**Lord Glozelle: ** He will tell much, I am sure. But this letter also tells us much. '_fight for the removal of the usurping rule here, and the restoration of ancient rights… Better to die with honour than to live forsworn_.' That word – '_forsworn_'. See how a little letter can speak? This tells us that your accomplices had already sworn to a plot. And a plot of long-standing it seems… '_We ask a sign, as you sent us a sign two years back, that we may count on you_…' This is very damning, Erimon. '_Two years back_' was when you were appointed as Gentleman of the Bedchamber. Did you send a sign then? To whom?

**Prisoner Erimon: ** It is nothing to do with me. The letter is not mine, either sent or received.

**Lord Glozelle:** Well, we shall see. Your cousins are with us, your oldest friends… all who were in the plot to… how was it put?... '_to stand with us to shake off this unlawful, vile and unnatural rule._'

**Prisoner Erimon:** Hard words, but not evidence of a plot. And not mine.

**Lord Glozelle:** No? '_The means and the opportunity we will arrange; we will await the sign._' Certainly evil deeds were planned. Was it to be assassination, Erimon, or sudden coup? Tell me now, and you might yet save your skin.

**Prisoner Erimon: **It is not ours. You know that letter is not ours. If there is a plot, it is yours; you have made and found this letter to give weight to your petition.

**Lord Glozelle: **I wish I had thought of it. It would have been a clever thought. But no, this is all your own work… yours, or Mavramorn's or Runan's or your old riding-mates – we have some half-dozen of you already. Or was it that oafish thing from the West? I don't really care. We will extirpate the lot of you.

**Prisoner Erimon**: I will sign nothing. But I will accuse whomever else you need accused, if I may speak before the assembled court. You said you had my cousins. They spoke much against Lord Miraz, especially after Belisar. No. Better not my cousins. Runan's brother – I can accuse Runan's brother. Or Arlian's cousin!

**Lord Glozelle:** Lord Miraz will appreciate the offer, Lord Erimon. I am quite sure you will tell us much that will be helpful.

**ooooo**

By the third of Chillbone the Nursery had returned to a husk of normality. The room seemed very empty, and it was much harder to amuse Prince Caspian now that Runan had gone; it had so quickly become normal for him to join lightly in play with the boy. The ball he had brought was a forlorn reminder of what had been, and she put it away for the time, not to remind the child of the one who had formerly rolled it or foot-nudged it to and fro with him.

What had become of the three she did not dare to ask, though she believed that her two fellows knew. Dell's somber face had a heavy, sickened look and Pidda's nervousness showed in trembling and pallor. Perhaps from their quarters they could hear something of what went on in the dungeons. Both of them shied from looking at the armchairs so lately occupied by the three.

Moll did not any longer dare to tell stories or sing songs before her two fellow-servants. Pidda's brittle sense of self-worth had transformed so quickly to spite and denunciation. If she had not, in striking at Moll, contrived to remind Miraz of his own fallibility… But it was not Moll's way to think of unrealities. That danger had passed. Dell, on the other hand, had shown herself strong, with a profound sense of herself – she would not be easily moved to sudden spite, but might from deep commitment and after long thought denounce someone she felt threatened security. Therefore… there were no more songs or stories in the daytime.

They were reserved now, for that quiet hour when she settled the bathed and clothed child down in his little bed, and nestled with him, as she had after that day of inquisition, until he fell asleep. He seemed to need the reassurance of her closeness, perhaps because of that long, unsettling day, or perhaps because of the sudden vanishing of three of the few constant presences in his life. Whichever it was, she was willing to give him that hour, and gradually came to find in it … but to seek comfort was not in her nature, surely?

Or should not be. She remembered again the dream. The Lion which did not see her – that meant nothing, she decided; after all she had told the child many stories which had the Lion in them. But she was uneasy to find that she had dreamed at all. Dwarf-brood should be able to sleep when they would, and their sleep should be dreamless, their night-minds dark as the inside of a mountain. "You _do_ have Human blood," Cornelius had said, and she began to fear that living among Humans was strengthening that in her, that Human blood was gradually overwhelming the other legacies in her veins.

Softness – she felt softness creeping on her – the malleability of mind which Cornelius had impressed on her. Once she had known that she wanted to see all Telmarines slashed and slain and rooted out of the land. It was harder now, to know that that was what she wanted. It must be. It still must be, but she did not _know_ it in her own rocky core any more. And surely, surely not yet, that other Human weakness? But still she held him close, every night, as she told him the stories that the Cell had charged her to tell. The child needed reassurance.

As he needed play. After a week she ventured to ask Dell if the child might have more toys. He was getting older, and had now no playmates at all, other than Moll herself. Dell nodded, taking it as a matter of course that Moll should now recognize her capacity and authority in matters of supply in the castle.

Two days later the new toys began to arrive: velvet animals, cleverly and beautifully sewn; a wooden castle, complete with drawbridge and turrets and miniature flag, which the child could build up and knock down and build again; a brightly-painted wooden puppet which jumped up, startlingly, when a string was pulled; even a toy sword and shield, emblazoned with the Telmarine arms: a field tawny with raven sable, displayed. They were enticingly, cunningly made – she was almost tempted to play with them herself, and was examining the jumping puppet with a smiling appreciation when she caught sight of Dell's face.

"Tomorrow we are bidden to see the end to this business of the Gentlemen."

An execution. Dell's face said as much, and she had known from the start that this could end in no other way.

She felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. What must be, must be, but this Telmarine way of killing in cold blood those whom they found damaging to their regime or their pride… she shuddered. It was not meeting an enemy in clean battle, or in full-hearted hot-blooded struggle, as one wolf might tear out the throat of another. It was something much viler, a mincing withdrawal from any personal responsibility for death, mixed – she knew the Telmarines! – with a prying, excited delight in the pains suffered by those others, at a distance.

She searched for something to say, and came up with "Is it all three?"

Dell looked oddly disappointed, and she knew that she had somehow missed the mark.

"I don't know how many. But we are all bidden to be present. Make sure you sleep tonight. It will be a long day." Dell's voice, already flat, seemed to come from lifeless lips. "From midday we will all be present to see justice on the traitors, and then as night falls you must return to change for the reception, when you will take Prince Caspian to receive the joyful duty of the nobles alongside Lord Miraz."

Dell's voice, but the words were surely not her words – the High Seneschal's perhaps?

"The child, too?"

"His uncle has said plainly that Prince Caspian must attend the execution, since these men are being executed for treason to him, as well as to the realm. An execution is a matter for men and for rulers; it is a hard duty to do justice on a traitor but it must be done. If Prince Caspian is ever to take the reins of this kingdom, then he must attend the execution."

Still not Dell's words. Miraz' words.

She could not believe it would be an easy execution. Not quick. She thought of how just a fortnight earlier, that day when she had thought that she herself might be the one facing their cruelties, she had held him close and told him only gentle, sunny stories, to shield him from pain and fear. This, forced on him by his own kind, would be pain and fear enough.

And this, forced on her by her enemies – it would make it so much easier to teach him the second part of the lesson she had come to teach: not only to love Narnia and the Narnians, but to hate his own kind. She wanted him to know them as Narnians knew them, with fear and disgust and hatred, as foul and blood-stained tyrants. And here was the way open to her, not through long laborious story-telling, building up twig by twig, but in just one day… she could shape him now, the child she had held close all that long day, to shield him from fear and pain.

Her eyes met Dell's.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

_**A/N:** I pinched the Telmarine arms from Pauline Baynes' illustration! And, patient readers and wonderful reviewers, we are slowly getting to the end of this story. Thanks for hanging in there!_


	14. Judgement

Chapter 14: Judgement

Her eyes met Dell's. How was it that the Human eyes were so dark and silent, unfathomable? Her own, she felt, must show too plainly her terrible clashing uncertainties. She had once known so _certainly_ that the child must be taught to hate his own kind; it had been a fixed part of how she had planned to carry out her mission to win him away from Telmar, to grow in him a Narnian mind.

But … was she not Dwarf enough to refuse to hide from a reality, however hard? That old certainty had met a newer one. Just two weeks back, she had known just as certainly, all through the long day when she had thought her own life might be smashed to fragments, that the child must be shielded from pain and fear, whether it was Glozelle's savage violence, or her own anticipation of torture and death. Her duty to her heritage of hate and fixed purpose, and her strange new certainty – she could not reconcile them.

She looked away from Dell, and at Caspian. He was holding two of his new toys – the brown-velvet stag, with its soft leather antlers, and the golden lion with fine-spun mane – and when he saw her looking at him his delight bubbled over into so much eagerness to share his pleasure that he could hardly speak.

"Look! Nu-urse! Look!" His eyes were stretched as wide open as they could go, then suddenly squeezed shut in an excess of joy. He ran across to her, and cannoned into her legs, hugging her, still with one soft toy in each hand. He was getting strong, she thought confusedly – the impact of his small, sturdy body had almost made her stagger back; Dell's steadying hand behind kept them all upright.

She bent down, pulling her mind away from the problem of strategy and change, to please him by admiring them, their beauty and cleverness.

They _were_ very beautifully made; Cornelius was right that Telmarines had skill in contriving. Telmarines – this Telmarine child. She jerked her mind away again, but could still feel the whole wrangling, clashing pile of thoughts, looming over her. This Telmarine child, like the Telmarines who had made these beautiful toys – they were enemies, to be hated, and manipulated, and eventually crushed out of Narnia… was that not what she believed? He _must_ be taught to hate his own kind. She reached again, and gently stroked the softness of the velvet, and Caspian laughed his high, excited laugh, and flung his arms, each one still holding these new treasures, around her neck and nuzzled in, his joyousness muffling into a soft, loving wetness. She closed her eyes. She could not do this alone.

When she opened them again, she saw Dell was standing very still, and watching her – something in her face reminded Moll of the time when she had slapped the child, months ago. Dell had seemed to be appraising her then, and she had that same careful, judging aspect now.

Perhaps Dell, too, was remembering that time, because she spoke, almost exactly as she had spoken then, with a bleak simplicity. "It won't do, Nurse. It can't happen." Then, as Moll did not reply, "Nurse?"

She couldn't answer. She could not do this any more alone. The grinding collision of two loyalties (_loyalty?_ to a Telmarine child?) exhausted her, bewildered her. And Dell, a Telmarine woman – Dell was a mystery. She had sworn duty to Miraz; so she could not be trusted, but it seemed _she_ was trusting _Moll_. She was – surely? – calling on Moll to keep Caspian from those cruel scarring sights and sounds which Miraz had ordered.

But even if she fell into the trap of trust which seemed to be opening, of accepting a Telmarine's trust, and thus giving trust in her turn, how could she in these few short hours, until tomorrow midday, find a way to keep the child from those sights and sounds?

She floundered, lost in the uncertainty. She could not do this any more alone. If she could speak to the Cell… even if Krimbin could come again… Krimbin and his apples…

And then – she almost laughed, with a desperate amazement at herself, at having been briefly so lost, and at now seeing one way forward – two! She _could_ speak to the Cell, and there was a way, if she could summon Krimbin, to keep the child away from the morrow's horror. If she had lost some of the unshakeable certainty of the Iron Dwarfs, she could still use plain Narnian woodwit. And she could wield other wit, too; she had still the quick-moving, darting mind of other forebears, to find a way out from any tight place.

She stooped to the child again, summoning all her reserves to seem to him light-hearted and winning. "Come, Caspian. Prince Caspian! You have a fine new castle, and I know _just_ where we should take it, to make sure you build it right!"

He looked up at her, puzzled, but pleased, as she tumbled the wooden blocks of the toy castle into her pockets, and then scooped Caspian himself into her arms. She looked fiercely at Dell. She would say nothing, she would _not_ trust a Telmarine.

Dell smiled faintly, apparently accepting her refusal. "The less I know…" she murmured, and stepped back, making way for Moll to enter the main corridors of the castle.

It was a risk, to go without cause, to the heart of Miraz' elaborate spying apparatus – certainly it was a risk at this time of fears, mistrust, denunciation. And the half-formed plan she had – another risk, especially if she were suspected of being the cause. Let it be so! She could trust her instincts, couldn't she? Didn't that most buried part of her heritage exult in danger, as well as hate?

**ooooo**

A small cluster only this night, called urgently and secretly by Cornelius: Grattandrak, Sletha, Flet, Uach – an older and more saddened Duck than Cornelius remembered from the night Moll was given her mission, her brash cheerfulness transmuting into a wearier cynicism – the two oldest Dogs of the Resistance Pack and the old woodwife who had given of her wisdom and knowledge to ready Moll for the task, those many months ago.

"Is it Moll?" Sletha had sensed pain and trouble, but not in Cornelius himself.

"Yes. She came today. She has asked for help. She came to me in great trouble about the boy; Miraz has ordered him to be present at the executions tomorrow."

"She feels for the shock to the boy? The sights and the smell of …" Sletha spoke softly, as ever, but his silky muzzle twitched uncontrollably with the tensions latent in the unspoken word.

"He is Human; he would not feel the blood-smell as you do. But yes, she fears for him, that he will be stamped and broken by the sights and sounds. She spoke to me of Larissa, and how she is still marked, even crippled in mind, a little, by what she saw the night they came for her father. She fears that the Prince might be so scarred."

"She feels… gentleness for him?" From the breath of wonder in Sletha's voice they could know how much the thought of gentleness was like a balm to the haunting memories of cruelty and torn flesh.

"Perhaps not that, but something like it. She said, and truly, that if he is so scarred, it might be harder to make him see the kinship of all Narnians, or – as it did with Larissa – might make him draw back into inaction through fear. We need him to have both courage and feeling."

"What does she ask of us?" Grattandrak's voice betrayed frustration. "We cannot work inside the castle."

"No. The help she wants – it is simple enough, but must not fail. She asks Krimbin to come without fail, with apples, as early as might be, tomorrow morning. That is all. She and I will do the rest." Then, as their leader hesitated, "Grattandrak – she is urgent that it must not be, that it _cannot happen_ that the child comes to his kingship unpredictably scarred by this."

Grattandrak frowned. "It sounds like strategy, but I feel not strategy alone."

"No."

"This is not rock-hard Moll, then." He paused, gnawing at his underlip. "We must all of us judge here. This Cell gave Moll the assignment in great haste; we must not rest too long on decisions maybe taken in error. Moll has long been one of our strongest, cleverest workers, but she has worked almost alone for more than two years now; the hardest rock will crumble at the last."

"_She_ does not crumble." It was the old woodwife. Tau. "If she has called for apples, _I _judge she is thinking of hard action indeed – for her and the Prince."

"That is your judgement, then. You others? We must not let mistaken loyalties imperil us all."

Uach settled back down onto the ground, accepting that her voice was not called into this debate, but the others spoke in turn.

"Gentleness is no cause for mistrust; the truest Narnians have ever been the gentlest."

"Aye! Her scent is many-threaded, but true, Gratta'k."

"Aye!"

"Caution, though. Only two of us have seen her this long time, and Krimbin is not here."

"True, Flet. Cornelius? We need your sharpest, hardest mind before we fall in with her plan, whatever it may be: Can we still trust to her strength and her judgement? I do not say her loyalty; I know her to be unshakeable there. But we need to be able to rely utterly on every operative, and there was that bad misjudgement in the matter of the letter."

Cornelius bent his head down, for some minutes, thinking.

"She _has_ changed. I think living with Humans, more of that heritage is showing in her than formerly, but I believe she is as committed to the cause as any of us here – as any Dwarf or Beast. You are right; she is more Human than she wants to know, or would want us to see. Though she is not Human in this, Gratta'k, and not true Dwarf, either – she embraces menace more than most of us. I think she would rather be alone, there, fighting, than safe in a snug cave elsewhere."

"She is Iron Dwarf, brother, not like you. I have Iron myself, as well as good strong Red blood."

"It has bred a good leader in you. But I never heard that the Iron ran their necks into a noose, any more than the Red. Still, my judgement is that we may rely on her utterly; when we spoke, it was she who made the plan, and I who acquiesced, offering only side-help of very meagre magic, for a charmed sleep. In the main, we are trusting to her skill, her knowledge," Cornelius nodded across to Moll's teacher in this, the old woodwife, "to her courage and to her decision that this is necessary."

"So be it." Grattandrak nodded, choosing not to ask details, but to proceed to action. If an operative was to be trusted, that ended the matter.

"Uach."

She padded forward. "I hear, Gratta'k. To go across the river and tell Krimbin that he must take apples tomorrow, as early as might be."

"Yes – wait!"

She paused, craned her short neck around back to him.

"He will be met at sunrise in the reedbeds, with a bagful – did she say how many she needed, Cornelius, or any special sort?"

"Some half-dozen, she said – I think she needs not more than one or two, but there must be enough to seem a plausible delivery."

"It shall be. Sletha."

"Yes." They all knew that the Hare would ensure the delivery to Krimbin.

"Let me give them." It was old Tau who spoke. "Come with me now, Sletha."

"So. We are done. Cornelius, stay."

The remnants of the Cell left, one by one, save that Tau seemed, to any watcher, to be leading Flet.

The two Dwarf-brood waited in silence until the last sound of footsteps, padding, hoofclicks, had died away. Then…

"Cornelius… is it what I think it must be? The timing is too close."

"Not that alone. There was another matter, which our Pack must help us run to earth, so that we are acting with as much knowledge of our enemy as we can muster. But yes, it is the letter, our own letter, which miscarried. It has been taken … _mis_taken, for evidence of a treasonous plot within."

"If what I hear is true, she and Krimbin by this blunder will have killed more than a dozen of the enemy."

"I fear so."

"Fear?"

"Yes. Grattandrak… few know this, but many years ago, before I came here, I spent time with… great counsellors, learned in hidden knowledge, watchers of the skies. They have seen a very great danger for us in this struggle."

"This is not hidden knowledge. All of us in the Resistance are in danger of discovery and death at all times."

"Not danger of death for us, but danger that we may find ways to triumph which bring much greater loss. Not so much danger for the Beasts, but for us, the Half-brood. The long struggle and uncertainty has damaged us all. Those watchers have said that within ten years, or twelve, the danger will be very close that we will find the enemy amongst ourselves. I have seen this a little in Barrogich, and even in Moll…"

"Treachery? You gave your judgement for trusting her!"

"_Now_, yes. I have seen it in times past. And I do not mean we will find the enemy amongst ourselves in that way. This business tomorrow – she and Krimbin have indeed brought about the deaths of twelve of the enemy. I don't think she has seen that yet; she has been too caught up in the matter of the Prince. But she and Krimbin and all of us… "

"What?"

"It _was_ a blunder; it must _not_ be embraced and vaunted as a triumph, or a beacon. If we do not offer even our enemies honesty – respect and true Narnian honour – then we have _become_ the enemy."

"I cannot follow you."

"Lion grant coming events do not show you what I mean."

**ooooo**

Hours later, Sletha dropped to all fours, lying low in the brown grass beside the river. Krimbin nosed his boat in, skillfully edging through the sharp, dry reeds until they were thick enough that no peering eyes from the castle would see the strange sight of a fisherman seeming in conversation with nobody, just a brown smudge on the shore.

Hours later again, Moll was swiftly and furtively slicing and chopping the apples, putting the flesh to one side, and leaving the peel and cores on the table.

She stopped. The child was playing, absorbed in making the making his spun-wool sheep eat make-believe grass around his castle. She crossed to him, and lifted him, very sombrely, hefting him to judge as precisely as she could, his weight. And paused again.

Krimbin had brought her the apples, Cornelius had promised his aid by midday. It was for her to act now. She looked across at the velvet lion, lying where it had been left, on Caspian's pillow, and smiled grimly. "Ashdreo's Lion," she muttered, "if you were ever there, guide me now! All old Tau's wit and learning, guide me now!" And then very carefully counted out fifteen glossy, dark seeds, and deftly stripped off the coat from each one, to show the creamy hidden power within.

She had no grinder, and would not ask for one – Dwarfish caution and reserve tempered the wild recklessness which had brought her this far. Instead she crushed the seeds with the handle of a knife, around and around on the dark wood of the table, into a harmless-seeming creamy paste. And then the peeled apple into fine slices, and each slice smeared with a little of the seed-paste.

Calling the child to her, she smilingly, and unwaveringly, fed him the apple slices – wavering would not help them now. The plan had been made, and she would not now deviate a hair's breadth from it.

Then there was just the waiting.

Half the morning had worn away, and both Pidda and Dell had arrived, carrying the day's clothing – a strange assemblage of plain unbleached linen and the fine strong silks she had seen before, the grand festival garments – before the signs she was looking for began to emerge.

Prince Caspian began to sweat, to rub at his head and eyes, then to tremble, at first slightly, then more and more. He looked up, fretfully and wonderingly –"Nurse! I sick!" – and retched a little. She gathered him up and held him as comfortingly as she could – the worst part was coming, and there was still more than an hour till midday.

Dell stiffened, and looked up sharply from her task of sorting the bundle of garments into separate piles. She was watchful again, but this time looking keenly at Caspian, eyeing how his chest was beginning to rise and fall more rapidly. When his trembling began to shift to spasms, she rose, so hastily that the dull, pale-brown linen scattered on the floor, and came hastily across the room. She touched one hand to Caspian's temple, and held it there for a moment, while looking closely at his wandering, dazed eyes.

When her eyes flicked up to Moll's, they were no longer unfathomable – instead they held a horrified question. Moll looked defiantly back, with contempt for the Human shrinking from hard action; to save the child from the terror which might mark his mind forever, yes, she had carried him to this place, this short and hard passage of illness. Dell must surely know that.

"Mistress Nurse… we need the physician."

Yes, indeed they did, to vouch for the reality of the illness – as many witnesses as possible, before the Cornelius' blessed relief should come.

She nodded – and only then realized that Dell, whatever her revulsion from the means Moll had found, had been asking a kind of permission – asking if a physician would spoil Moll's plan, or put Moll herself in danger. How strange – this Telmarine, without a word, had accepted Moll's lead, become a conspirator to subvert Miraz' attempted twisting of the child into Telmarine cruelty. What she had tried to avoid had come on her, she thought, though she had not the freedom of mind to care much for it now – she had been trapped into trust with a Telmarine.

Pidda was sent in all haste, and Lord Miraz' own physician, and several underlings, came – the little body was stripped and examined for spider-bite, his racing pulse was noted, his terrible dizziness, his paling lips, the arching of his back, fighting against the deep nausea. His breakfast food was tasted, and scanned, the remaining half-apple – Moll had long cleared away the rest of the signs of more – checked for any worm or mite. That the child could not attend the day's ceremonies – or the night's rejoicings – was utterly manifest, though the doctors could assign no cause for his illness.

And as he was in the hands of the doctors, with Moll herself shut out of the circle of close attention, at last, at _last_, Cornelius' skills began to tell… the spasming softened, and the child drooped.

The doctors were alarmed; Moll felt a wash of thankfulness. It was the charmed sleep coming on. Now all that was needed was that she watch through the hours, to keep his breathing clear until he woke again.

In the background a slow, heavy drumming sounded. Midday.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

_**A/N**: I'm sorry about taking so long to upload this chapter – well, to actually write it, in fact! and also for its shortness, and most of all because it hasn't advanced the story as far as I hoped it might. I hope it won't be as long next time, and that we get a good bit further! _

_Enormous thanks to all reviewers for their encouragement in this business - and special thanks to rthstewart, for the suggestion to show a view of Moll from some of her comrades in the Resistance. _

_Oh, and: don't chomp up too many appleseeds!_


	15. Out of the depths

**[****_Be warned: this is a pretty grim chapter. Rated T for violence._**

**_Most of the characters come from C.S. Lewis's Prince Caspian; just one of the many books of his which I am grateful for_****.**]

**Chapter 15: Out of the depths**

Midday, and the slow thudding drums were sounding to roll out Miraz' reprisals against those who would challenge his ascendance. The High Seneschal – dressed not in his customary orange-tawny tabard, but in blank unbleached linen – was at the door, to bring the Prince and his household to be witness to the day's doom.

He was met by the physicians, who were very plain that this inexplicable illness, especially with the complication of it now seeming to turn into deep unshakeable sleep, meant that the Prince could not, could _not_, be present. The Seneschal frowned; Moll carefully suppressed any sign of her dark amusement at how his Telmarine mind must be floundering at the disturbance to what was apparently one more not-to-be-broken protocol, in the stifling forest of Telmarine protocols.

But it seemed the Seneschal had long experience, or perhaps just great quickness of thought, great skill for his work, in finding ways to make ceremonies go smoothly, and traditions seem uninterrupted or new departures seem like time-honoured ritual. He very quickly considered and then pronounced:

_His Highness' Nurse, being, as it were, His Highness' body-servant, must take His Highness' place on the dais, as a sign of his participation in the day's work, and his reciprocal loyalty to all loyal members of the state of Telmar-in-Narnia._

She had not reckoned on this. She had assumed that as his nurse, she would able to watch over Caspian through the remaining still-dangerous hours. For just a moment she felt lost again, fumbling for the way forward. How could she leave the boy she… The doctors would watch but she needed more, to be _certain_ he would be safe.

Dell.

She looked across, and now it was Dell who nodded, very slightly, making a second wordless agreement between them. Moll touched her hand, very lightly, to her own mouth and throat – this time Dell's nod was accompanied by the smallest of smiles, in her eyes as well as on her lips. It was plain that Dell felt that she was on certain ground. As surely as Moll had known how to poison just enough and no more, Dell believed she knew how to nurse the Prince to recovery, to see him safe into health again. Her eyes said that she knew how to keep a throat clear, how to cool a fever, how to soothe a fretful newly-waking mind, and even that she found it a little amusing, in the midst of her anxiety, that Moll should have – however small – any doubt at all about that.

So. If she must trust, she must. And she did believe that Dell had the skill; there was more to that Woman than she had understood. Great skill in nursing the sick would account, maybe, for the disproportionate respect in which she seemed to be held – disproportionate for a mere under-servant in the nursery. And if she must trust, then she could free her mind for its second, constant task – observing the Telmarines, and learning what she could about them, and about the castle's ways, since every scrap of information had the potential for future use.

**ooooo**

The Seneschal was urging them now to assume the clothing proper to the day – Pidda as well, since he had decided that the girl must attend alongside on the dais, as representative of the Prince's household. His mouth pursed at there being no more than one, but he did not attempt to direct Dell away from her position at Caspian's bedside. So for Pidda, too, he summoned up the proper garb for one of the dais-party on an execution day –an all-enveloping cloak of the unbleached linen, many-pleated at the shoulders, and reaching to the ground. And to the last, he was analyzing, arranging, assessing, deciding – Moll, he decreed, was to hold and present (though in reversed hands – her right hand holding the shield and her left the sword) his toy weapons, as a sign of both the Prince's little age, and his martial future as defender of the realm.

Watching his fussy, punctilious precision, Moll felt she was seeing, and almost understanding, more of how these people thought and worked. What was important to this man was surely a sign of what was important to them all, and every characteristic of an enemy was to be searched out and remembered, for possible use, somehow. This – their curious need for precision in the proper clothes, the fitting stance and order, the right demeanour – it was all part of what she must see and pass on to the Cell.

And then, very quickly, it seemed, the drums sounding remorselessly throughout, they were hurried out into the corridor and began along unfamiliar passages and down a narrow winding staircase to the great central courtyard of the Castle.

She came out, into spacious air and the thin winter sunlight. The staircase had opened directly onto one side of a wooden dais, built up above a bleak rough stone square, with high walls all around. She had never seen this before – it was odd that she had lived so long, so close to it, but never known that the Castle was built as a great square, with a central courtyard. From over the river, she had seen most of her life the smooth outer walls, and these past years she had come to know those rooms which had concerned her, or where she had been summoned, and she had walked on the river-facing battlements, but she had never realized that this dark blank emptiness was at the heart of it all.

Doubtless this was where the guards practiced and drilled, she thought, scanning the yard, gathering what information she could to pass on the Cell. Usually, she supposed, there would be targets and battle-practice and busy armourers. No such mundane use was perceptible now. There was a blur of close-pressed humanity filling the main of the courtyard, shifting, murmuring, and looking not back at the dais but across – her eyes followed theirs – to where a complicated device of dangling threads – chains? – and pulleys, hung from a metal framework, fixed high on the dark stone wall.

And below the threads, tall posts, and just visible beyond the crowd, she saw now that some ten or more men stood or slumped, drooping, tied or chained to the posts adjoining the wall. She peered across, somewhat flinchingly – was it Arlian? Third in the line, with a thin, drooping young body, narrow-shouldered, the head sagging – only semi-conscious, she guessed. She looked away quickly, choosing to look again at the mass of people in the space before her. Immediately in front of the dais was a solid block of many figures clad as she and Pidda and the Seneschal were, in the pale-brown linen cloaks, all alike, and together presenting a curiously blank inhuman presence. The nobles, she guessed. Silent guards stood, five deep, dark and implacable, around the edges of the courtyard, hemming in the uneasy, shadowed crowd. Not townsfolk, she was certain, scanning them – these must all be Castle people.

It was something else she had never realised – how many people worked and lived in the Castle, nor how many guards there were in this vast place. Against her will she felt a pressure from the sight, to feel how great was the power of Telmar, compared to the feebleness of the Network. How great and how strange.

While she looked and mused, Pidda was whispering and commenting; she seemed to have completely forgotten her old resentments in the exhilaration of such a stir in the castle, and to be both awed at her sudden elevation – she had expected to be no more than one of the crowd of groundlings – and excited at the expectation of horror.

"I can't believe, it, can you, Nurse?" she hissed. "They never looked like traitors when they were with us. I think it's probably the other ones led them on – not our ones." And, a little later, "It's amazing – it was more than ten of them, they said. And all caught at once, starting with what they found in our very Nursery."

In our very Nursery – yes, where Pidda had tried her petty best to have Moll put in the same plight as these men. Moll did not reply.

And now the drumming slowed, and ceased, and Miraz, and the greater Lords, and Prismia, paced onto the dais. Trumpeters bellowed a call to attention. Miraz stepped to the front of the dais. Like all the nobles, he was cloaked in plain pale linen, but he alone wore his mantle open, to show a blood-red tunic beneath. Surrounded by the unyielding blank of the rest of the Court, he was a powerful and impressive figure, and the murmurs of the crowd fell into a total silence which seemed to ripple out from where he stood. He surveyed the crowd for the space of five long breaths, and then began to speak:

"Men of Telmar! Nobles of Telmar! You have come, with your households today to see how Telmar deals with treachery, and with even the shadow of treachery.

"These once were Lords of Telmar, but lordship is a gift and is here stripped from the unworthy.

"These once bore arms for Telmar, but to bear arms is an honour they are unfit to hold.

"These once were called _Men_, but will be called that no more.

"As your fathers cleared vermin from this land, so now I clear these, to make it fit for you and for your children.

_As your fathers cleared vermin…_ Vermin. She felt a shuddering deep in her, a profound stirring of long and bitter family memory, of the killing times, when… She would not think of that. He meant _all Narnians_ – he meant: as Telmarines had cleared Narnians.

The drums began again, slow and heavy. So – now the Men would die.

With dark satisfaction she turned her eyes again to the line of figures. It was _just_ that those who had "cleared vermin" should themselves be called vermin, and killed in turn, just that these Telmarines should die. Yes, she had blundered, she and Krimbin, but here from that blunder would be twelve Telmarines dead. It was no loss; it was a gain to the Cause.

Twelve vermin Telmarines – so they proclaimed their own! – would be cleared today.

She looked across at the one she thought was Arlian, as two men stepped up to him, one on either side, and ripped the ragged shirt down in two, exposing a bare, pale chest. It was a curious echo of that scene earlier, of the doctors, stripping Prince Caspian, and scanning his frail body for any sign of spider bite, with an intensity of skill which looked like love. Just so, these men were scanning this man, running practiced hands over the thin young shoulders, the soft curves of muscle below, with a calm intensity of skill, looking almost like love.

Was it Arlian? The men reached out for the dangling threads – thin chains, she saw now, each with a hook at the end, and pulling out his unresisting arms, pierced – no. No.

Her entrails wrenched – _pierced_ the tender flesh, pushing through sinew and muscles and under the bone as unconcernedly as a butcher might. One stepped back as the blood spurted, then turned and signalled to some accomplice – the other gave a brisk workmanlike tug to the chain. Unbelieving, she saw the sagging figure straighten, the chest lift, the legs lengthen, as if reasserting its dignity, rising to full height, wavering, from the ground, and the hooks begin to pull and take the weight – a little weight – scarcely more than a boy, not a full man's body, she saw now. And terribly, that drooping head jerked up, and thin, broken, screams began to pierce the air, pierce her ears, as the blood began to drip onto the packed earth beneath.

Just the reactions of a body, just the screams of a sleeping man, not really feeling the pain. Surely? She felt cold. Cold and sick. Young Arlian, young, stupid Arlian. Surely he was not really feeling the pain of his own weight pulling against those hooks? Please – whatever powers there might be – let him be unconscious.

But the next man – a burly, heavy-set man – was not unconscious; he was gagged, and above the gag his eyes showed desperation and disbelief and unavailing fury. He struggled against his chains, and writhed away from the two practitioners, but him, too, they stripped and held and scanned in workmanlike fashion, deciding that four hooks would better bear his weight, and he was hoist up, and his blood also…

Another. Another. All Telmarines, all enemies. Hoisted up slowly, one by one, jolting and twisting as they rose. Too cruel - she had been wrong to think that enemies, that her enemies deserved cruel deaths - she had not thought... Was that solid young figure, waiting last, Erimon? He stood strong, sturdy now as ever, and ungagged. Was this bravado? Did he believe he would not scream as the others screamed? She remembered them in the Nursery, their ineffectual, boyish plotting, when they were so sure they were capable of defying Miraz, and working to remake Telmar.

In the nursery where …it was the letter she had hidden – so lightly and so stupidly hidden! – which had brought Erimon to this, which had brought Arlian, which had brought, somehow all these men to this, to be declared no longer men, but hanging carcasses, hung up as she had seen Telmarines before now hang up the carcasses of Foxes who had been caught worrying their sheep, strung up as vermin to dry in the air and warn others.

Erimon. And, sickened almost to weeping, she watched them treat him as _vermin_. She held her body straight, she set her teeth against the tears, but inside she felt her self begin to break apart in sorrow for that unlovable young man who had oppressed her people, and had betrayed his own friends and tried so hard to make a bargain for his life with the tyrant. She could not save him, not any of them. All she could do for them was to stand straight, and be witness to their deaths. She watched them thrust through his warm-hued skin with their sharp hooks; she heard his cries, his terrible astonished cries at the last that he had been betrayed, that he had been told that he would be spared, that he had given them the names of others. How could he have not known that he was doomed, she wondered. (So Men deceive themselves with hope. Had Cornelius told her that?)

Erimon. (His body began its shuddering journey up. She could only watch. ) Erimon had given them names, but she also, she had brought them to their death; she had not meant it, but before she knew what it meant, she had willed it. Now… there had never been anything she could have done to save them, she knew that. She could not have claimed the letter without betraying herself, and then Krimbin and the Cell – if they had the thread, they would unravel the fabric. She did not have and never had had, the luxury of honour.

But she had called them enemy and thought them vermin, as they were now being called and treated by their own kind. And now all twelve men were hanging, dangling, some twitching, some clearly near enough to dead.

Miraz was speaking again. He spoke well, she allowed, dully, though his words drifted in and out of her mind without staying there. She had gathered enough information for the Cell this day.

"It is not one full moon… a traitor fled… into the Western… will still guard with our own heart's blood… searched and found… the very proof…" and then he was flourishing a paper – that same unlucky letter, she supposed, and struggled to listen, to hear what it was that she had never found time to read, which the Cell had sent to Archenland, and which Miraz had taken to be written from Telmarines to Telmarines:

_Even were there no ties of blood and friendship between us, your brothers and cousins, your love of freedom and justice is ample guarantee that you will be by our side to fight for the removal of the usurping rule here, and the restoration of ancient rights. We have suffered this long, and have seen too many deaths and exiles, but we have never given up the hope that right will be restored, and will never give up, through hardship and long struggle – we will have spring again!_

_We do not plead for you to support us as we rise against oppression; we offer you the certain glory of fighting for justice. Better to die with honour than to live forsworn._

_We ask a sign, as you sent us a sign two years back, that we may count on you, our oldest friends, to be our friends indeed once more, and to stand with us to shake off this unlawful, vile and unnatural rule. The means and the opportunity we will arrange; we will await the sign._

Somewhere around the middle of the letter, she heard a short, indeterminate sound from someone on the dais, a faint wail, cut short. She could not attend; she was drinking in the words, words never intended for her, but like life-giving water now, or like a chance of solidity when the world had begun to shift under her feet.

"_the certain glory of fighting for justice_" – to fight against "_this unlawful, vile and unnatural rule"_

Yes. The Cause was still right. What had happened today was vile, and that she had opened the way for it, and had somehow been one with Miraz in using these men as _vermin_ … _that_ had taken from her the last shreds of certainty about who she was, and what made her any worth at all in the world. But the Cause was still a just cause, and the Cell at least was still the Cell.

**ooooo**

Holding on to that, she endured the last of the afternoon. It seemed the Telmarine way was to gaze in silence at the hanging men until the last life had left them, as the last light left the sky, and she kept her gaze steady, to be – since she could be nothing more – a witness to their deaths.

And then endured the procession of return to the Nursery, and the washing at the warm copper basin, and the dressing for the festal night ahead; silent Dell was her tirewoman, setting the rich silks into right array. She looked longingly at the small shape asleep in his cot, longed for the simple warmth of holding the child to her, but knew without asking (_asking! she had never imagined that she would be __asking__ an underservant for permission to touch her own charge_) that he was exhausted from the day's struggle against the poison in his body.

At least she had kept the poison from his mind. At least she had managed to shield him from seeing what she had seen and hearing what she had heard. But that was a small comfort to her, when she was feeling that she herself was buckling under the weight of what she had seen. She could almost smell the blood on herself, she thought, though she had splashed and rubbed until there was no more time for washing.

Another slow pacing to the Great Audience Chamber, another formal approach to the dais. Another long standing while the merriment of the night went forward. Moll wondered again at the strangeness of the Telmarine nobility, who could seem so light-hearted, after buttressing, as a silent faceless mass, such cruelty.

The Lady Prismia, though – she did not dance as lightly tonight. Her usual winter freedom (_winter, when the trees were quiet_) seemed to have deserted her. Her eyes were ever turning, no matter where she moved in the long lines of the dance, to her husband, with an anxious – almost a frantic – questioning in them. He saw her entreaty, he certainly saw it, but he kept his own eyes firmly on the partner of the moment, and held a sternly joyous visage to the world, as suited a leader who has just with much pain (_but not __his__ pain!_) restored order to the realm.

The long dance had just ended, and the Lord Protector escorted his Lady – returned to him by the evolutions of the dance – back to the dais. He was breathing fast, warmed by the dance, and also perhaps by expectation of some other action, for the courtiers were now falling back, making way for some other use of the floor of the Chamber.

Moll saw now that expectation was rife around the room – certain nobles were falling back, and others… Ah! Glozelle, and a party of the Guard commanders, and Sopespian stepping forward, also with a little knot of supporters by his side. She did not need to guess what they were about; their approach mirrored too plainly that other approach, in early winter, when they had asked that Miraz assume the kingship. In only one aspect did this approach differ from that one. _Then_ they had tried to make the movement seem spontaneous and uncontrived; _now_ their preparation and organisation were unconcealed and unmistakeable.

"My Lord!" Glozelle spoke briefly and to the point. It was only a few short weeks since Miraz had Named the Prince as heir to the kingship, he said, and already traitors had moved to take advantage of what seemed like the weakness of a child-heir, to plot treachery. The letter had shown how deep was the plotting, that it had gone back two years, to the time of the prince's first Appearance at the Court, and thus was unmistakeably focused on that one weak point. That these enemies had been identified and weeded out, but that Telmar-in-Narnia must be ever vigilant. That the realm needed a strong and present king. That all those present joined in beseeching the Lord Protector to take up this weighty burden, and pledged to him their loyalty and loves.

"The letter…" Miraz mused aloud… or pretended to muse – Moll believed he knew well what he would say. "Yes, that has shown us, and this recent enquiry has further revealed, that we had within our own halls a nest of traitors, now happily destroyed. I rejoice with you that the realm is safe, my lords!"

"And make our joy complete, Lord! Be our king!"

A confused murmur of support echoed Sopespian's call, and Miraz looked out across the chamber, his eyes bright, but still purporting to doubt the breadth of support.

"Who calls for this? Who adds their voice? "

Who would dare to _not_ show support after this day's work, Moll wondered? Indeed, as she looked across the chamber all the bright silks now rustled to the floor, like a wind brushing across a field of bright flowers. No servant knelt – not even the High Seneschal – clearly they were merely onlookers, at a matter for the nobility alone. And now the whole chamber of nobility knelt before the Lord Protector, the lords and ladies all, with arms held out, beseeching his acceptance.

Miraz swayed a little, rocking from heel to toe, bending his gaze down and across the living carpet of colour before him. He was gratified, triumphant, and it seemed disposed to delay his acceptance in order to savour the moment.

"And my sweet Lady? What say you, Lady Prismia?"

The Lady's back was to the assembly. Only Moll and those few upper servants who stood on the dais could see the look of pleading, and even of desperate entreaty which she turned to her Lord.

She breathed to him, a murmur lower than a breath – Moll doubted that any other, that any without wolf-sharp hearing, could hear – "Miraz! What did it mean, in the letter? What did it mean, my lord? '_we shall have spring again?_' What did they _mean_?"

He bent to her, smiling and tolerant, and spoke low. "My love, I think it meant nothing, but if there was a meaning, you know that my last breath would be to protect you. And … who better to protect you than a King?"

She stood still, seeming to be frozen by her fear, and he spoke again, lower still, "Will all of Telmar reach out to me, except my Queen?"

Her wide, frightened eyes were fixed on his; gradually a small smile tightened her trembling mouth, but it was a smile borne of desperate valour and desire to please, not of joy.

Slowly, very slowly, and still with that tight smile belying the pleading eyes, the Lady Prismia sank, in all her billowing silks, before her husband, until she knelt, and slowly, slowly raised her arms also, in entreaty to him.

An exultant shout sounded from the chamber. Miraz laughed aloud. He raised his voice and spoke with triumphant gladness. "Then, since you all will have it so, and since my sweetest counsellor adds her voice to yours… I accept this burden, and I will be your King."

**ooooo**

The winter's night was long, and the official rejoicings, with music and dance and dainty suppers seemed set to continue till the dawn. If any had doubt or reluctance it was well hidden; none dared not to laugh or dance. Moll, though she had believed herself rock-hard to endure, felt only relief when the Seneschal signalled that she could leave quietly; one of his underlings escorted her through a side corridor, skirting the main floor of the Chamber.

Back in the Nursery, she relieved Dell from her long vigil; between them, they eased her out of the harsh, rich clothes, and Dell took them away to the laundries and the store-rooms, and she was alone.

Alone, after this long day. She was cold and alone, and lost in a morass where so much that was solid had melted away. The child slept peacefully, and she yearned to slip again into his little cot, and seek what comfort she could from his soft warmth – but how could she allow herself, her guilty blood-stained self, the touch of something as innocent as the Prince? She could not even reach out a hand to touch his cheek, as he lay sleeping.

She could not go to her own bed because she could not rest, nor to the fireside, to find a shadow of warmth there, and least of all to the table where the Gentlemen had sat and plotted so feebly, and laughed and cracked nuts and whiled away unknowing the last months of their lives. There was nowhere to go. She folded down onto herself, and crouched on the floor.

So much that was solid had melted away. The Cause – _that_ was still clear. It was still a just cause. But her own role in it, and her own self – what had they become? She had tried so hard to be rock-solid for the Cause, and now the letter she had hidden so carelessly had been the means by which the tyrant had manoeuvred her charge one step away from the kingship – and worse, had been the means by which he had so cruelly done to death so many, under pretence of discovering dark treasons.

And those who had died. She had thought she would rejoice, and _should_ rejoice, at the deaths of enemies, and now she was only sickened at the remembered smell of their blood, and saddened – amazingly saddened – at the thought of those poor Human bodies, hurting and twisting and dying. She had thought – though never using that word – that the Telmarines were _vermin_, as they had thought of Narnians, and as good Narnians had once thought of her own. She had called herself faithful, but now – which had she betrayed more? The Cause, in her sorrow for those deaths, or her own ancestors in finding her own mind had called others _vermin_?

Her only worth, she accepted bleakly, had been in strength and persistence in hate, and now these were gone. She had betrayed them all, and been the means of death, and was empty and cold and alone.

And most of all – what _was_ she, now, if she was no longer – perhaps never had really been – indomitable Moll? If she was no longer the self she had seen herself as, with rock-solid commitment to hard fact, and strength to endure like iron, and the ability to hate for a hundred years – then what _was_ she?

Then, out of the darkness and the emptiness, a Voice.

"Ask me, Daughter, and I will tell you."

Her head snapped up, and then away. She would _not_ look at him.

She knew Him. It was Ashdreo's Lion. It was the Lion who would not speak in her dream, the Lion who had cheated the Lady, the Lion by whom they swore, the ones who had hunted her own family down, and called them _vermin_. She could not ask him for knowledge and she could not ask him for comfort. She was utterly apart from him.

"Ask me, Daughter, and it shall be given."

Very distantly, in her mind, was the memory of Ashdreo's hard eyes on her. She fought to find the words she meant, to tell him how apart from him she was and always had been. All she could find was: "Why have you come? I am no daughter of yours."

"You have called on me, three times, Daughter – will I not come to one I love?"

"I didn't call... _You cannot __love__ me!_" The words broke from her in the midst of her denial; she had not known she would say that.

He huffed a little breath of laughter, but did not reply. She struggled to justify her words.

"I am not…" all the things she was _not_ flashed across her mind – she had not Lithasrien's grace, not Ashdreo's belief, not Sletha's gentleness, not Krimbin's humility, not Cornelius' clarity, not Grattandrak's wisdom in ruling their unruly Cell… Or even those she had thought were her enemies… not Pidda's simplicity, not the Rough Lady's truth, not her brothers' courage, not Dell's patient service, not... "I am not…"

He blew, and all the things she was _not _shrank into husks and blew away, and she was left with what she was.

"You know what I am…" She looked up, as far as the great paws, and the beginnings of the dark shaggy mane, and then away again. How strange that Ashdreo's Lion should be real after all. If Ashdreo's eyes were hard and judging, how hard would these eyes be?

"I do indeed know you."

"I am hard. Ugly, angry, bitter. I hurt people… I am not a Daughter of Eve or any gentle brood. My ancestry is more dark than you can know…" Her voice broke; she could not go on.

"Beloved." There was another huff of laughter in the voice. "Beloved, you are no accident. Your lines have been laid down for a thousand years, there was no accident to your birth, and no accident to your naming – no accident to who you are. You have a hard heritage to bear, your own, and you hold it well."

"You know me?"

"Yes, I know you. I have always known you, and I have loved you, and I have given you that most precious gift."

"What gift?"

He did not answer directly. "Child. Do you not know the gift? Molgrimach. _Molgrimach_…"

The soft, soft sounds of the long-forgotten name, the name once tenderly spoken, her own name, which began in a lullaby and ended in a sigh, like a spice-scented wind soughing over sun-warmed rocks. She looked up, at last, inescapably, into the huge, golden eyes; it was like drowning in light, falling into the sun.

"No-one …" no-one was left who had known her by that name. Of all her family, or all that long, impossibly plaited heritage, she was the only one left. How had he known her name?

"Molgrimach…" The great dark-gold head stooped lower, lower, and the warm, heavy breath, strong and sweet as an orchard in summertime blew across her small, hard face, "I know you. I have known from before you were born. Molgrimach. Take the comfort you will not ask, and find the knowledge you will not seek, and wield for me the gift you have been given."

_What gift?…_ but she could not speak the words aloud, she could not speak at all. And the golden eyes, and the warm and glowing golden coat, and the dark shaggy mane, and the sunshine of his presence all blazed up together, and were gone.

**ooooo**

**ooo**

_**A/N:**__ I would really like to hear some more reviews! Oh, this is a bad chapter to ask, I know, because it was so brutal, and also because of venturing to write Moll and Aslan together. But still, readers, if anyone has the time for a review…._


	16. Lessons in the business of kingship

_**As often said before – several characters in this story, and the whole Narnian world, are taken from the work of C S Lewis. Thank you, C S Lewis!**_

**Chapter 16 – Lessons in the business of kingship**

She slept long, waking, in her own bed, instantly alert, still with her last question to the Lion on her lips. What _gift_ was he promising? Or did he say that he had already given it? She curled her hands in frustration; he had gone, and her memory was already dimming. She knew that something enormously important had been said to her, but…

her name! he had said her name.

The memories rushed across her. Her name, given to her in defiance of those who had harried and hated her kind for centuries, and in hope that she could keep the memory of a great warrior alive. A name which had been whispered to her by those who loved her, but which must never be spoken outside their own place, even in a whisper; outside and always she must strive to be only Moll, strive to be overlooked, strive to be insignificant, because being overlooked, contemptible, insignificant meant being able to live.

When the last of her Clan had died she had been forced to seek survival by living as an insignificant female with the Half-brood in the town – and indeed she _was_ Half-brood, she had both the Human and the Iron Dwarf in her. (Iron Dwarf, despised already by so many good Narnians, but for her, good cover; she could live despised but passing amongst them, thanks to that ancestry.) She had striven to be simple, but Grattandrak had watched her, and realized her abilities and skills, and recruited her into his Resistance cell, to fill a designated vacancy. He had offered her a way to use her skills for revenge against cruelty and injustice – though he only meant Telmarine cruelty and injustice – and she had seized it with hard exultation, resolute to be what she appeared.

But now… everything was shifting and crumbling. Yesterday, revenge was not a passionate delight and fulfillment. Yesterday, to see her enemies die had felt more like desolation.

And yesterday, not just a Lion-lover, but the Lion himself had been with her and known her and called her by name. She was _known_. The Lion lived, and she was known.

What this meant for her and for reality she could not tell. Dwarf-canniness and caution, and long training in silence, meant that she would not jump too quickly to react in any way at all. She would not run blabbing to tell others, and to ask what it meant. The Lion lived, and knew, and that was certainly danger, a terrible and unexpected danger; but where could she be safe from the Lion if not here, where no-one believed in him? And how many Narnians, even, were true Lion-lovers? She would stay here, for now, still work for the Cell, be hard Moll, the long-time worker, for the Cell, and still be Mistress Moll the Nurse for the Telmarines.

And for Caspian, who was beginning to stir. She had slept late. Hastily she washed and dressed, and then did the same by the prince, to have him ready for when Pidda came in with the breakfast.

**ooooo**

It was not Pidda; it was Dell. Pidda, it seemed, after apparently enjoying the events yesterday with zestful repulsion, had this morning collapsed under the weight of witnessing the executions. Moll felt her mouth twist in contempt; it was so like Pidda, to make the pain of twelve men into her own matter for leaving work to others, while she moaned or shrieked.

She did not ask Dell which it was, nor did Dell offer. She had returned to her old shuttered self, seemingly, only that before she left to take away the things from breakfast, she remarked, as if to herself only, "It has been long since a King has visited this Nursery."

Moll had begun to be able to hear the things Dell did not say. Miraz was coming, and probably his visit would have import for Prince Caspian's future. She was glad to have the forewarning.

When he arrived, some half-hour later, it was with a small retinue – the Lady Prismia and her ladies, his own physician and two of his assistants, and several minor courtier-lords and gentlemen-in-waiting and two guards, who took up their place outside the door.

His first words, angrily and suspiciously spoken, were to the physician. "The boy seems well enough now!"

The physician looked puzzled, but stoutly reiterated the symptoms of the day before, the fever, the tremors and spasms, the unshakeable sleep. Miraz evidently had a long trust in the man; he listened with only short shows of impatience, anger and doubt. Finally, the physician simply admitted bafflement – an admission which might go some way to explaining why Miraz trusted him, Moll assessed – and stated baldly "Children are like that, my Lord – quickly ill and well."

"I did not make you Court Physician to be ignorant, Master Chablin!" Miraz' tone was sharp, but the physician was evidently not ill content to take this as an acceptance of the situation – and he had at least not been dismissed from what was evidently a new appointment. He stepped back and stood with his assistants at the Nursery door.

Miraz, looking keenly and darkly at Prince Caspian, stepped quickly backwards to the Gentlemen's table, stopping in front of the chair which had been Runan's favoured place, closest to the centre of the room. He was sharp and confident in his movements, without seeming to need to look to his path, a mark of a skilled fighter.

"So… nephew!"

The child looked up, puzzled, unguarded and ready to please. Miraz sat, and beckoned him over by a jerk of his head. Caspian came tentatively, and was imprisoned, standing, between his uncle's knees.

"You are well again, it seems! What have they told you to the day you missed, lad?"

Caspian's puzzlement was turning to apprehension; he looked warily to Moll for the answer his uncle wanted.

"He knows nothing, my Lord. We have scarce begun the day here."

"You sleep late, boy. A prince should wake early, to look to the welfare of his people!"

This was to Caspian; the new King ignored Moll completely. His wife, however, did not – she looked icily, and Moll realized that she had blundered.

"Your Majesty, I should say! Forgive me!"

The coldness of Prismia's stare did not alter, but the King, still without appearing to notice her at all, flicked a half-nod in token that Moll's bungling speech was to be overlooked.

"Prince Caspian! It is scarce three weeks since I gave you that name, before all the Court. And now much has changed. You must learn to know these changes."

Was he speaking to the child alone, she wondered? Or was this to the servants, or to the court?

"You are a Prince now, Caspian, next in honour to me and to my Queen. You are heir to a King."

Moll curtsied, almost without thinking, and was pleased to note she had read the Telmarine mind aright. The ladies with the Queen had all curtsied too; the room in general had swept an obeisance. Miraz continued his talk without pausing to acknowledge them – a tactic, she realized. It was his best tactic to take such things as matter of course now.

"As my heir, you should no longer be sequestered here, with only three Gentlemen of the Bedchamber to serve you. You will share my own gentlemen-in-waiting now, as I send them, each day." So – the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber were not to be replaced. The exact meaning of that for the Telmarines Moll would leave to Cornelius to make plain – whether this diminished her charge's standing, by removing his own small court from around him, or elevated him, by placing him on a protocol level with the King. For herself, though, it was plain that the Nursery would no longer be left unwatched; a shifting staff taken from Miraz' own men-in-waiting surely meant a constant reporting to Miraz.

"Those three who were here have now gone for _ever_. Do you understand me, boy?"

"Ever… after…?" hazarded Caspian doubtfully, trying hard to give this daunting uncle an answer which might satisfy him. Moll felt an ache to see how gallantly the child was trying to meet unknown expectations, to please a man who stood for unknown authority and sudden unexplained rages.

"_After?_ There is no _after_ for them! They have gone! Wiped away. They were _vermin_, and had to be wiped out of this place. Say it, Caspian! Vermin!"

"Ver'in."

"_Vermin!_"

"_Ver'in!_"

"Yes. A hard lesson for so young a Prince to learn, but one you will need to learn. I am sorry you were not able to learn it yesterday at my side." He paused. "Well, doubtless you will learn it again before you are through. Meantime, come." he released the child. "Make your bow to your aunt, the Queen Prunaprismia."

Caspian stood still, at a loss, and beginning to panic, looking towards Moll again. She sketched a bow for him, and nodded encouragingly to indicate his aunt, and he tried his unpractised best to meet this fresh demand.

His uncle frowned again.

"Did they teach him nothing? It seems the three traitors were traitors in this too! You will be better taught when my own men are with you, Caspian! But," with one of his lightning changes of mood, "life is not always lessons – bring me those toys and let us see how you shape with them!"

Caspian looked relieved to have a command he could understand, and ran to get the sword and shield Miraz had glanced towards.

"Good… now – come here, and let me see you hold that sword as if you meant it! and the shield… no, no. Not like that. See, if you held it that way, a blow _here_, would break your thumb, and a man with a broken thumb is a dead man in war! So… like _this_! Yes… better!"

Now Miraz was smiling, and Caspian was smiling, too, glad to have somehow made this unpredictable uncle pleased with him.

"What do you think, Aunt? Will you take this little knight as your protector?"

But Prismia did not join in the brief relaxation. She shifted fretfully, and said, looking only at Miraz. "I do not wish for _play_ as my protection, my lord!"

He frowned impatiently, and muttered to her – though this time Moll felt even ears less sharp than her own would hear – "I tell you there is nothing to fear!" and, when she lifted her head angrily in response – "Well, we shall see how matters stand through this summer. But not now." Then, taking his own word as cue, and speaking to the courtier-lords –

"_Now_ we must be about the business of kingship, and leave this Prince. But the matter of the Prince's attendance is settled. There will be no more Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. It was, maybe, too much temptation for them, to think they might one day form his own court – a temptation which ended," his eyes flicked along the lines of courtiers and men-in-waiting, "as all treasons end. These, my own gentlemen-in-waiting, will be sent on rotation, to serve him. Another year or so and he should be joining the world of men, in any event, not huddled here with _women_!"

It was the closest he had come that day to acknowledging Moll's existence.

**ooooo**

The Nursery felt oddly empty once Miraz and his little flock of attendants had left; Moll noted though, that the guards remained at the doors – as a tribute to Prince Caspian's status as his uncle's declared heir, or as something else?

The visit had left both of them feeling edgy and uncertain; Caspian was brandishing his sword with an over-excited energy which betokened ill for his behaviour for the rest of the day. Apparently Miraz' lessons, intended or not, in the possibility of simply ignoring servants – or women? – had not been lost on him. And that other lesson, too, because more than once he muttered "_Ver'in!_" vindictively and energetically, as he stabbed at some unseen target.

She felt cold. Was all her work, so laboriously built up, to prove so flimsy, after all? She had tried so hard, but she was not and could not be the only influence on the child, especially as he grew more into the world of Men.

But… great mines are not quickly dug. She called him to her, and tried to soothe him back to quietness. He was a sensitive child, after all, and the tensions of the day before would not have been lost on him; the poison, too, might still have lingering effects. She wondered when the men-in-waiting would arrive. It might be that this was the last moment she would have alone with him, and she was urgent to counter Miraz' teaching.

"Caspian, the Gentlemen… those men yesterday…"

"_Ver'in."_

"No, Caspian. Remember the Beasts? They are your…?"

He looked at her warily.

"Cousins?"

"Yes. And a king must be…?"

"True's Cousins and p'tect the land." He was falling into the familiar; the new and exciting lessons of the morning were maybe receding a little from his mind.

"Yes. And those Men yesterday," She felt again the desolation of those sights. "You must not call them _vermin_. They were _Men_, and _just like the Beasts_ they are your…?"

"Cousins?"

"Yes!" She rewarded him with her most loving smile. "They are _all_ your Cousins. And a king respects all his Cousins."

His Cousins. She saw now. The lessons she had been teaching him all these long months crowded back at her. If _his_ Cousins, like the Beasts, then must they not be also _her_ Cousins, as the Beasts were?

Hugging him, she pondered further. Was there perhaps a kinship of those who suffer contempt and hatred? Could that make kinship even with Telmarines, and Men? Even those who had hunted Narnians as vermin? But the Narnians, too, had hunted, when it was their Golden Age, and still she had found a kinship with them when they were oppressed, a kinship which had allowed her to feel that she belonged in the Cell, even though some of them – Ashdreo? – would have maybe wanted her sort wiped out as vermin, in the old days.

This was more tangled than any Castle intrigue. Somewhere, there was rightness in there, that she had pitied those twelve Men, that they were some sort of kin to her. It was important and right that Caspian not be allowed to call them vermin, and it could not be right unless it was just. But _how_ was it justice, if vermin-hunters were not justly punished by being hunted and called _vermin_ in their turn?

Laboriously, she turned each thought over, trying to fit them together into a coherent whole. Impossible. She put the puzzle away for a later time.

**ooooo**

The new regime meant a constantly shifting presence in the Nursery – it broke apart the enclosed world she and the prince had been living in. More than that – the gentlemen-in-waiting were perceptibly lower in the court rankings than the Gentlemen before. Those had been Lords, but these had no titles, or none that were made known to Moll; their comings and going meant that often even their names were not given. They were also perceptibly less in train to become Caspian's own courtiers – they were Miraz' men, first and last. They saw their time in the Nursery not as a path to possible future position, but as just one duty among many that Miraz handed out.

If this meant that the Nursery world became more open to scrutiny, it also meant a relaxation of manners within it. These men were more disposed than the Gentlemen to attempt chat with anyone in the Nursery, from the Prince to stolid, silent Dell. It was Pidda, of course, who was the subject of most of their attention, and many of them attempted some sort of flirtation with her during their few days' rotation on duty, but they also plainly enjoyed the light duties involved in amusing the Prince.

From their remarks to those two and to each other – they were not generally disposed to bother greatly with Moll herself – she was able to gauge something of the general flow of events in the castle, and even in the town. It seemed that Miraz' assumption of rule had been accepted without much demur; the Telmarine townsfolk were content to leave the matter of the kingship to the nobles, as Miraz had lessoned Dell once. He was making some changes in administration, it seemed: the men grumbled about the new town entry tax – payable even for brief visits to roister in taverns and swagger through the markets – and the new suggestion that advancement in Castle service would require skills in reading and writing.

Their talk gave insights into other matters as well. She observed with interest that the tales of Trees and danger from Trees had begun to spread amongst them, washing back from the town – tavern talk, probably, and maybe spread by her own Cell – into the Castle. Not she, but _they_ were the ones who hinted to Caspian that there was dark danger in the forests, teasing him with mock warnings which he took in childish earnest.

"…So watch out, Your Highness! The Black Woods might get you!"

Pidda, hearing this looked as uncertain as Prince Caspian; Dell just pursed her lips without comment. Moll seized the chance to reinforce the work in spreading such tavern and market rumours. She spoke in a low, worried tone, as if not wanting to add to fears.

"It's not really a joke, though. The Black Woods _are_ dangerous. People really do need to be very careful there."

Caspian and Pidda both looked a fraction more anxious and unhappy.

The gentlemen-in-waiting present that day looked at her dubiously, but did not bother to contradict her, not that first time, and not as winter gave way to spring, and the great elms across from the Nursery windows came into fresh leaf. It was they who spoke then of the Queen's Ladies, and their growing dislike for the South Tower rooms. The town story of the Black Woods they had treated as something of a joke, but the fears of the Ladies they took more seriously, speaking in half-scoffing tones, but then trying to find reasons why the fears were rational after all.

"Who'd want to have that much green around the windows? The noises at night for one thing…'

"The thing is, though, it sucks goodness from the air, to have too much green leaf about. You can hardly breathe in those rooms."

"True. Well, he might," _he_ was the King, she surmised, "move the whole of the Queen's household back into the old Queens' rooms for the summer, I should say."

She took the chance to speak again then, not knowing where 'the old Queen's rooms' were, but eager to further this small part of the great work for the Cause.

"That would be better for them all. It's not just the _air_ that Trees suck the life from. Much better to be away back a bit from Trees."

This time they looked consideringly, not dubiously, and seemed to take seriously the hint she gave, by tilted head and eyebrow, that it was not fit to talk further of this matter before the Prince. She felt satisfied; that work at least, was well begun.

In general, though, more and more the gentlemen-in-waiting treated her as negligible, to be tolerated but not respected, and more and more she could see that Caspian was beginning to follow their example. She began to wonder if her best time for training his mind had already past.

But even so, even so, she still had influence, and she still would use it. He accepted the chatting and laughing of the men-in-waiting, and he played heartily during the day with his toys – he received more than any child could play with, and all wonderfully, intriguingly, delicately made – but she could see that the times he loved best were the times when the men-in-waiting had all gone, when Pidda and Dell had left, and she was free to tell him stories of Narnia, stories to make him in love with the land and its people, however little it really, now, resembled those stories. A story, perhaps, to ready him to hear and to bend to possible future pressure from Archenland for Free Narnia:

"Are you all ready for bed?"

"Yes!"

"All snuggled up, and quiet?"

"Yes!"

"Then it must be time for…"

"Story!" and his eyes excited and his arms reaching out, and … it was in fact, she conceded, a great pleasure to her, as well as her task for the Cause. She closed her eyes, the better to enjoy his hug, and began.

"Well, it was long ago, in the earliest times…"

"In the big winter?"

"Oh, much longer ago than that….

"King Col was a wise, wise man; he was one of the sons of the Narnia's first King, Frank, and Frank and Helen and all their children lived in great peace and happiness in the wonderful land of Narnia, but… away away to the south of Narnia was a wild land where there were people living, but there was _no king_! So how could they manage do you think, without a king?"

The little boy pondered, and then ventured, "Come Narnia."

"Well, they _could_ have come because for many years, Narnia had a wise, wise king. What did that king do, do you think?"

"True-his-cousins-and-p'tect-the-land," he answered readily.

"Yes! Good boy!" and she stooped her face and nuzzled down onto the little head.

"Well, Col was thinking when his father died that he would be King of Narnia! because he was the tallest and the strongest of all his family, and his father was the king."

"King Peter!"

"No, this was long before High King Peter. Col was the son of King Frank! but King Frank had a wise, wise wife, and she was the…"

"King?"

"No, the wife of a king is called the _Queen._ Like Queen Prunaprismia."

"Queen."

"Yes! And she was very, very wise, and she was so wise, that when King Frank died, all the Animals said, 'please keep on ruling us!' and so she did!

"But she knew that Col wanted to be a king, and she knew that Col and his brothers could not all stay idle at home, so she said to her son, 'Col, there is a wild, wild land and it needs a king! So _I_ will keep ruling Narnia, and _you_ will be their king!' And Col was very brave, and he went to the wild, wild land, with only his good brother, Prince Colin, and a wise old Raven to help him rule."

"And the people of Archenland were _so_ happy to see him! But they _still_ didn't understand how to be good, or how to be wise. So King Col sent back to his wise, wise mother.."

" 's wise, wise mother.."

"Yes, and he said 'Mother, how can I show these people that they must all live together,' and _she_ said 'Col, you must teach them that living together is like the great Snow Dance, where we all dance together, Dryads and Fauns and Dwarfs, and we thread in and out of each other, and toss the snowballs, and everybody together makes a beautiful dance, and we _all do it together!_

"So King Col set out to teach the Archenlanders how to dance, and he called for pipers to come from Narnia, to play the pipes that the Fauns play in the low woody dells, and they _came_, and they _played_ for the Archenlanders the merry, merry music of the Fauns! But…

"… the Archenlanders _wouldn't_ dance to the pipe, and they _wouldn't_ dance to the merry, merry music of the Fauns from the low woody dells!" The eyes that looked up at her were big with surprise. She kissed him again, and went on:

"So… he called for the great brass bowl, that the Centaurs play in the high mountain forests, and they played for the Archenlanders the strange, wild music of the Centaurs! But…

"… the Archenlanders _wouldn't_ dance to the bowl, and they _wouldn't_ dance to the strange, wild music of the Centaurs from the high mountain forests! And _so_… he called for the three best fiddle-players in all of Narnia! And do you think they came?"

Caspian, wide-eyed, shook his head.

"Yes, they _did_ come! And the fiddlers played music that was merry, and merry, like the music of the Fauns from the low woody dells, and they played music that was strange, and wild, like the music of the Centaurs from the high mountain forests, and their music was _merry_ and _merry_ and _strange_ and _wild_ all at once, and… the Archenlanders…" she paused for the better drama of the ending, "_**danced!**_

"And that was how King Col became the very first King in Archenland, and taught the people of Archenland to all live together! And that is why to this very day, it is the fiddles that the Archenland people love best of all the music there is."

He breathed a big sigh of satisfaction, and she cuddled him down, and built on the story, thinking as always of the possible futures for this child.

"One day, Your Highness, you will visit the good folk of Archenland, and hear their music. They have always been Narnia's best friends, and they will welcome you to join them in dancing with them. Will you like that?"

"Yes."

"I know you will… and you can sing them your own songs, too, about all your happy land of Narnia. Listen now as you cuddle down…" and she sang him to sleep, in the harsh voice which he loved better than Pidda's sweet one, with the gentle songs of the good Beasts, and with old, old lullabies.

**ooooo**

At midsummer, when Caspian was three years old, it was a small procession which went to the Library, for what had become the traditional viewing of the Prince's forebears. It was surely something that could be used to advantage, that the Telmarines so quickly made tradition of happenstance, and held to it so rigidly. She noted with weary amusement that the Seneschal had even sent an underling to ensure that each portrait was given the correct amount of time; the inattentive Caspian was given the names and titles of each portrait, in due form, with a brief outline of the chief accomplishments of each.

But the tradition did not help her now, in her objective; she could not talk to Cornelius. She saw him, at least; the staff of the Archives and Recording section were lined up to receive the Prince, and Cornelius was among them. But it was impossible in this formal visit to have any word at all with him, nor did they even let their eyes meet.

His name and position were announced to Prince Caspian, as were with the names and ranks of all the staff, despite a complete lack of attention from the prince, whose eyes were wandering elsewhere, looking for his favourite old picture of Caspian the Seventh. Cornelius was introduced with a grander title than some others – he had advanced in the service, then, to a position of some trust and responsibility. Senior Recorder and Deputy Economic Archivist. So _he_ had made good use of his time, at least. When she had to leave – Miraz had strongly hinted that her time was coming to an end within a year or so – the Cell would still have an operative inside the Palace. But she regretted that she could not yet give to him the information she had gathered, and take from him some counsel as to its meaning.

**ooooo**

The summer markets had come and gone, and the Network had held its midsummer meeting to take decision-in-council. Grattandrak had travelled there to speak for the Cell, and now brought back to them the decisions, the news of the past year and the strategies for the coming year. The Cell was silent, listening without comment to the tally of loss and gain from other cells, losses in life as well as in strategy.

"The south-east," – cells were never named by any more close identification than location – "has reported that the work with Archenland has begun again, promisingly – the Network has congratulated this cell on Moll's work, in warning the envoy of the trap Miraz had set for him, by the way. The south-east reports that there are those who will speak for us in Nain's court, but it will be a work of more than a year to establish a basis for negotiations with Nain himself. Nevertheless, they believe that with patience and with well-chosen speakers we will make headway there. We are not required to play a part in that, but they will accept any good speaker or subtle negotiator to their team. Cornelius is the likeliest of us for that work, but I put it that he was too valuable where he is to be spared, and that was agreed; the Cell was congratulated on his deeper infiltration in the Castle.

"They also report that there is a belief that the mountains have remnant refugee populations. It was agreed that we should not attempt to locate or deal with them, especially as their heritage and loyalties are uncertain. However, the Network is aware of your wanderings, Ashdreo, and asks you to observe and report, but even if you see signs of such populations not to make contact without further direction from the Network."

The Wood-man nodded, with a slightly bitter grimace.

"The Network congratulated this Cell heartily on the work of destabilization through spreading fear of trees. We can expect further contributions to this work from other Cells. Baroggich, Tau – well done.

"Ashdreo, the rumours you gathered in the West about the Trees, and the possibility that they are waking again, were very seriously considered, and the Network congratulates the Cell on your work, and understands that there is no-one in the Network whose interest in this is greater than yours. The decision-in-council is that you now leave that work to others, and that we send at least two Dogs to infiltrate with Telmarine hunting-dogs there, run with those packs, and bring back from the hunting season any additional information possible."

"Done!" The short yelp of agreement was Gruach, but Grindel rumbled in support at his side; between them they would select which of the Resistance Pack would be honoured and burdened with the mission.

"Our report, with the news of Miraz' usurpation, was accepted. That Moll's work with the name Caspian," a low growl from the Dogs and from Baroggich greeted the hated name, "was contributory to this was not seen as in any way blameworthy, although somewhat unfortunate. The Network believes that since Miraz has no heir, Moll's work should continue as long as may be, to do what she can to further the Cause and to gather information, though it was clearly understood that her time is limited. Krimbin."

Krimbin signed that he understood; he was to convey to Moll this decision of the Network, along with their grudging exculpation.

"Lastly, the Network noted that unfortunately the divisions within Telmarine nobility, or near-nobility have been greatly diminished by the business of the purge a half-year back. The only remaining major division known to us relates to the brothers Morvan and Pelandor, but no Cell was able to report news of those, nor of their sister, nor of those who set out with her to find them. Cornelius gave us exact accounting of those who were executed, and none of these was among them. It may be that they live. The Network considered that it is possible that they live and will raise a rebellion against Miraz, possibly in the north, or the west. We need to be prepared with as much knowledge as we can gather from any source at all, to be prepared with a position in such a case. All operatives are to take this as an additional task. The Network gave this as watchword and countersign for the year: _an enemy's enemy is a double danger_."

The Cell murmured the words over to themselves. _An enemy's enemy is a double danger._

**ooooo**

**ooo**

_**Author's Note: ** The physician, Master Chablin, is a personal acknowledgement of what may have been the last ordinary suburban GP in Australia to make housecalls, (at least, I have not heard of one since) the much-appreciated Dr Chamberlain, who kindly came to my parents' house when my mother, with no car to haul us all around in, was coping with four children under ten, all ill at once. Blessings on you, Dr Chamberlain! _


	17. Telmar - Conqueror

** _[Of course Narnia, and the Telmarine Conquest and Miraz and Caspian and much more are all from C.S. Lewis – and even some actual quoted dialogue – many thanks, C.S. Lewis!]_**

**Chapter 17. Telmar - Conqueror**

**The summer wore away** into autumn. The gentlemen-in-waiting accompanied her and the prince now, wherever they went, even to the little patch of green on the river, where the three elms grew beside the South Tower. Pidda still held to Dell's old directive that she should accompany the prince and his nurse on all trips to the riverside, and so the excursions there now had something of a holiday, picnic air, with chatting and laughing – even, occasionally, singing – between the men-in-waiting and the maid, though not to the nurse or the prince..

A different operative – Lithasrien? – might have been able to work this situation better, she thought. As it was, she was for the most part awkwardly separated from the rest, who all seemed to find pleasure in idle chatter on still-warm afternoons. The presence of so many, too, even if they ignored her for the most part, meant that Moll could make no progress with moulding the prince's mind. Indeed, she noted uneasily that he was becoming more open to influences other than hers. He watched the men-in-waiting avidly. He clearly admired their size and their strength – and surely he was learning from them, by listening to their talk with Pidda and by seeing their ignoring of Moll herself, how Humans dealt with other Humans. She felt they were unconsciously teaching him, too, by their distance and deference, how a Telmarine prince was expected to deal with his people, how to keep the proper reserve and the proper condescension.

In one thing, at least, their teaching was deliberate. They had not missed Miraz' anger that the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber had neglected to teach the prince such niceties of courtly behaviour as bowing, and from time to time they made a game of presenting him to Pidda, as the Queen, or to one of themselves as the King. They went so far as to act for him the part of the assembled courtiers, showing him how he should be courteous but distant with all but the King and Queen, and how to wave and nod to acknowledge what had emerged as the slogan of Miraz' reign: "Telmar! _Conqueror!_".

For the most part, though, they left him alone, and he ran and shouted and danced as before, and thought about climbing the elms – though there were no very low branches to make that a possibility.

"And better not. Trees aren't friendly to us Telmarines," one of the men-in-waiting said, aside, teasingly, to Pidda, who made great play of seeming to tremble, looking up as if to implore protection. Moll grimaced. The child, even at play, was so open to influences other than hers.

Still, she kept on with the stories at night, with the cuddling and the lullabies, and still, it was Nurse that he ran to, and Nurse that he wanted to tell his excitements to – when he had a handful of ragged flowery weeds to give, or when the ducks paddled very close by in the river, it was Nurse he ran to, and tugged back insistently by hand, to "Look, look, Nurse! Ducks! Cous'ns!" (But they were not Ducks, only ducks.) She still had influence; she was still where she was, and what she could do, she would do.

But… she noted uneasily that what had, just eighteen months back, felt like a wide space for him to learn to run and to enjoy the freshness and closeness to the river now seemed small and confined – he was outgrowing this as a playground, she felt. And outgrowing her as his carer – he was growing too tall for her to swing, though not too tall to clamber over her as she sat, squeezing in beside her or winding around and around her body, like an energetic and loving eel. But almost, almost he was growing too tall for this to be comfortable, too, and he was already too heavy for her to carry for long. He could run so quickly now that the river was a real danger. It was good that the gentlemen-in-waiting were with her – more than once they intercepted him on the verge of the river.

Good, as well, that in their talk to Pidda she heard more of Castle life. If one task seemed growing out of reach, another was possible, and she listened and stored knowledge, which one day would be shared with the Cell.

Summer had, it seemed, been awkward for Prismia – she had lost another child, and had gone into virtual seclusion during the warmest, leafiest months, declining to receive the summer's quota of ambassadors and envoys. Now that autumn was beginning to wither the leaves, she had crept out, said the men-in-waiting, and had taken up again her public life as Queen.

Moll supposed it was this, the duties of public life, which prompted the Queen to visit the nursery again, with Miraz, towards the end of autumn.

The visit was not a success. In one aspect it had improved; the lessons from the riverside had had effect, and when Miraz and Prismia entered the Nursery the prince made his bow in due form; Miraz nodded a grudging approval.

He also did unbend a little, to be affable to the boy, and to show him again how to strike with his sword and hold his shield. But Prismia, still pale and fretful-seeming, did not even seem to want to look at the prince much during her time in the Nursery; her coldness cast a blight over the visit. Caspian – the child was quick enough to feel something wrong! – attempted to warm the atmosphere by pulling out the old wooden horse, but this was a success with neither of the visitors. The Queen looked almost resentfully at the child – why? Moll wondered – and Miraz nudged scornfully at the toy with one foot.

"You are too old for that now – too big for that!"

Caspian's face fell, and Miraz frowned, though perhaps more in frustration than in anger.

"We shall have to find you a new horse, boy! Ha? Not a feeble plaything, but a real horse, to be your own! Shall you like that?"

"Yes!"

"Yes, _Uncle_." – in sharp correction.

"Yes, Uncle." – in obedient, somewhat cowed, echo.

"Not just now; our Horse-Master has much to do for me with the autumn colts! And winter is no time to learn to ride…" Miraz did seem to be actually thinking and planning for this future. "but… next summer, next summer.. . Yes. And then you shall learn to ride with me to the hunt, and to joust against the princes of other lands, and show them why Telmar is the king of lands, hey? Telmar, _Conqueror_!"

The gentlemen-in-waiting clicked to salute at the phrase. Caspian's eyes were bright. He inhaled hugely. To hunt alongside his uncle, and to triumph in the name of Telmar… ! His high excitement boiled over into a series of jiggling jumps, shrilling out "Conquenor! Conquenor!" and kicking gleefully at the wooden horse.

Miraz laughed.

"We shall make a soldier-prince of him, yet, hey, my lady?" But Prismia's beautiful face had turned away at the mention of summer – she was gazing out of the window and refused to answer the King.

**ooooo**

**Winter brought the great festivities** which Miraz had inaugurated the year before, and the week before that, a fussy, fidgeting visit from the Seneschal, anxious to establish what was the custom for this new-made time of rejoicing.

It seemed that as before, Caspian would attend the festivities accompanied only by Moll, not by the gentlemen-in-waiting – lest they should have the appearance of being his own personal court, Moll wondered? He was not to dance, and would attend only the first part of the evening. So – it was to be another long dull evening of standing on the dais watching the unfoldings and interweavings of the formal Telmarine dances. Another evening in the bright, stiff silks, and another evening of Miraz' speeches being greeted with loud enthusiasm by such of the court as had escaped the purges.

Still, Prince Caspian was to be there, and his position as heir would be confirmed again by his placement on the dais, by the King and Queen. The work was still in progress, at least.

The evening was much as she had imagined. The Court were in their most brilliant array, and the Great Audience Chamber was abuzz with anticipation. Prismia, especially, was at her most exquisite and most animated, sumptuously dressed, but outshining her silks with her own silken loveliness, her eager face glowing and her amber hair roiled in glorious waves and high confections. Miraz' eyes rested on her for a brief space, with the proud satisfaction of ownership, before he began to speak.

His spoke well, as always, and his speech was generous to the child – "this bright hope of our house, who will surely grow to carry on the work of protecting and extending this fair land even as we ourselves do…" – and he was cheered warmly by the Court. Surely they did, mostly, have a real fondness for Prince Caspian, even if their enthusiasm for his uncle's speech was a matter of necessity? Though possibly this was not so; the two nobles whose faces she knew best, the Lord Glozelle and the Lord Sopespian, applauded with the rest, but standing so close to them she could see that though they smiled, their eyes were cold.

Miraz' speech wound to a close. "… And so we bid you, as we said one year back, to make this shining winter night brighter still with joys and merriment! Telmar, _Conqueror_!"

And "Telmar, _Conqueror_!" the Assembly roared back in response, and "_Conquenor!_" Moll heard, just an instant after. She felt again the cold feeling that this child was slipping away from her teaching. She was failing the Cell.

A single trill sounded… the musicians had begun to strike up, but had paused on seeing a movement on the dais. Prismia, with her fists hard-clenched by her side, and breathing rather too quickly, had stepped away from Miraz' side, and begun to speak, not privately, but clarion-clear, to be heard by all the Assembly.

"My Lord and Majesty!" Though she spoke for the Assembly to hear, her eyes were on Miraz, with a mix of defiance, excitement and entreaty plain to see. "One year ago you inaugurated these festivities, and showed us all – from your humblest subjects to me, their Queen – how to shake off _Chillbone_ and to live merrily in this month of _Hearthbright!" _

The Queen, as well as the King, could speak effectively, to sway this crowd; they gave her appreciative laughter and applause at this reference to the new name for the mid-winter month. Miraz, though, was looking somewhat darkly and suspiciously at his Queen – whatever she was about to say was plainly unknown to him.

"Lord and Majesty! It was then set as tradition that at this time," _set as tradition!_ Moll flickered a brief scornful acknowledgement of the Telmarine way, "a boon may be asked of the King, and that he will hear it with gentleness and his great love for his people, however he might decide to reply."

"Say on, my Lady Queen!" The sharp edge was plainly to be heard in Miraz' voice, though he seemed to be trying to speak in genial strength.

"Well we recall what boon was asked then, and how it was granted, and what great happiness has come to our land in consequence."

Wild cheers, and cries of "Conqueror!" Miraz' mouth half-quirked in a smile; despite himself, he was being won.

"Your gentleness gives me courage to ask this small thing from you, King and Father of this land! There grow too close to this great castle three trees who suck the goodness from the very air we breathe, up in the South Tower. The simple boon I ask is this – that they be _cut down and rooted up before one more day is past!"_

Miraz seemed without words – surprised, shocked, caught between shame and annoyance. Certainly he had meant to cut the trees at some time or other… his delay had been perhaps for fear of seeming to give in to an irrational fear.

The Assembly, seeing little of his confusion, buzzed uncertainly, and then seemed to decide that the littleness of the boon made it a pleasantry – they laughed and applauded.

Under cover of the laughter, the Queen moved closer to Miraz, and Moll was certain that none but she could hear the quick, desperate murmur which followed. "I _beg_ you, Miraz! The Trees… they suck _the life from more than air_! I have asked you so many times, and I cannot stand to have it happen again…"

_They suck the life from more than air_. With a sense of shock and triumph, Moll recognized an echo of her own words, more than a year back. Why they had so struck the Queen, and by what path they had gone to the Queen's ears she did not know – perhaps from Miraz' men to the Queen's own ladies. But… it was like a reprieve. She was still accomplishing something worthwhile for the Cause.

Miraz, as ever, responded to the crowd, evidently deciding that yes, the granting of the request was not a matter of great moment. He laughed and saluted Prismia with a courtly grace, once again asserting himself as the imperturbable, magnificent monarch.

"Granted, my Queen! Those trees shall fall before another night comes. And so, this winter's boon is granted!"

And the Assembly applauded, and the music and dancing began.

_This__ winter's boon_. Moll noted that as something to pass on, when she should next see the Cell – it was probably_ set as tradition _even now that a _single_ boon might be asked at the Winter Festivities. But even more than that – Miraz might not be aware, but he had now set a seal of approval on the Queen's assertion that trees "suck the goodness from the air" – and who of the Court would now be able to sneer at that belief?

**ooooo**

**She watched them** from the Nursery windows the next day.

It was cleverly done, she acknowledged. To bring down such mighty trees so close to the Castle was not without risk, to the building itself, and even to the lives of those working to meet the King's pledge to have the tree down by nightfall. The Telmarines were clever in finding ways to destroy as well as ways to make. Great apparatus had been in put place before dawn, on the top of the South Tower – arms of ironwork slanting up, not solid iron, but cross-plaited, like a sifting-basket. Engines of war, Cornelius had said – the Telmarines were clever at making roads and engines of war, and she saw now how it could be.

The iron arms swung around from the top of the Tower and across the emptiness, and Men were lowered, dangling in baskets, with pulleys and ropes, to begin the destruction of the trees. First the small branches and then the great boughs were lopped, the topmost plunging down and tearing others below them, making great gaps and ruins in the grey winter lace.

She could not believe these were Trees, so close to Miraz' own castle. Though… the castle was just a thing of yesterday, compared to the life of such trees. They had probably stood even when Telmar first invaded Narnia. But though she did not believe they were Trees – still she mourned to see them so torn, and to hear each new crash echo through the day. Was this how it had felt to her kin to see Narnia fall, those generations ago?

Then, when only three great limbless trunks were left standing, teams of sawyers worked, with great skill and fierce concentration, to bring them down - the zip-zip-zip of the saws cutting down the mighty lives, the teams of Men held now by straps against the trunks, working great two-handed saws, and working down the trunks step by step, in great, slow leaps.

Finally, the teams of Men were down and working on the ground, sawing, and shouting encouragement to each other as the sun sank – the King and Queen themselves had come out to witness the last triumph. It was like a hunt, she realised – the woodmen and sawyers were as eager as any pack of hounds, sweating and laughing and working with a mighty energy. One down – smashing down across the little patch of ground. Another. And then, just as the sun was just touching the western rim of Narnia, the last great trunk groaned, and swayed, and with a terrible tearing noise, the last of the elms crashed to the ground.

The Men cheered, and the King and Queen laughed, and embraced. Telmar, Conqueror.

**ooooo**

**So there were no** fluttering soft seed cases to watch from the window that spring; there was no unfolding of the sharp bright new leaves, no flickering light as breezes toyed with the new green. The South Tower, without those graces, seemed to Moll to be heavier and closer than before, and more oppressive.

She was oppressed, too, by the growing feeling that Prince Caspian was becoming more and more what she had so much wanted him not to be, a Telmarine prince. She still remembered, with helpless sadness, the emphatic triumphant shout of "_Ver'in!_". And he would soon be four years old now; he was strengthening, growing, and becoming eager to imitate his uncle or the men-in-waiting. He often rejected her hand, now, preferring to stride along independently, and he also, which hurt more, rejected her offers of cuddling, other than at bedtime. More than once he refused to obey her, to the ill-concealed laughing approval of the gentlemen-in-waiting, because "_You're_ not a Man! And I'n a Prince!"

She was almost at a loss for how to deal with him, how to find a way to teach him, and at a loss, too, for how to fill his days. He was too big to be confined all day in the Nursery, and though the weather had warmed again, there seemed no point in going to the blank patch of ground where the elms had once stood.

It was in looking at the blankness, though, that she found her answer. The apparatus used for felling the trees still remained, and looking at that, she thought again, unhappily, of the cleverness of Men and Telmarines, how they could make, maybe engines of war which would tighten and tighten their grip on Narnia. But… if Caspian was to become, when King, the puppet and arm of Free Narnia – should he not also know something of the arts of Men? The armoury, where Men made weapons – or the blacksmith's forge, where iron horsehoes were made! Her heart lightened.

The expeditions were duly made, each accompanied by the gentlemen-in-waiting, inevitably, but those found entertainment of their own in talking to the other Men who loitered in those workplaces, and she and Caspian were free to explore and learn together. Other excursions followed, to the multitude of workplaces which were the bedrock of Castle life – to the stables, to the mill, to the joinery and more.

At the Kennels, the great hunting pack was a daunting sight, even for her, and Caspian – despite his half-angry "I'n not frightened, Nurse!" – shrank back against her at the sight of the fifty great hounds lolling in the spring sunshine, and all turning with one accord to eye the newcomers.

That first visit was not a success, but some little time later when they came again the Master of Hounds beckoned them into a quiet inner room, and showed them a squirming, clambering cluster of warm-brown pups - "Mara's litter, Your Highness… she had them three weeks back. Watch how I pick them up, and you do the same…"

When he – and Mara – could see that Prince Caspian was to be trusted with the pups, the Master left to be about his work, and that afternoon the prince spent several hours getting to know these most amiable and open of the hunting hounds, though Moll kept well clear, since she could never know which sharp-nosed hound might scent something amiss in her. (Had these hounds ever hunted _vermin_? She did not know.)

She did see, however, from her far corner, that the prince was trying – hopelessly! but her heart warmed at the sight – to teach the pups to speak, holding up one puzzled, wriggling pup to another, and trying to speak himself in what he imagined might be their style, when they did not respond.

"I'n a prince, and you're my cousns. Say, 'hello, highness! Go on… 'rfff…Herro highress rffff…' "

She spoke to him, gently, afterwards, for fear that he should innocently reveal all that she had been trying to teach him.

"They _are_ all your Cousins, dear Prince. But these days, alas, they won't speak to you. That was in the old days. Not now. Things have changed in Narnia."

"Why-y?"

"Things do change. And right now… you'd better not talk about the Talking Animals to anyone but me. Just keep it as a secret for now."

"Secret?"

"Yes, keep it a secret for now."

He looked thoughtfully up at her, and she wondered with a misgiving how long she could trust that childish understanding.

Late in spring, after the spring foaling was done, they visited the stables, where the Master of Horse very gently set the boy astride one of the older brood mares. He was a quiet man, with apparent great calm and confidence, which brought calm and confidence to Caspian as well. They did not, as Moll had expected, walk out of the stables, but just stayed quietly, the Man with one hand on the neck of the quiet-breathing mare, the boy seated, slowly taking into himself the general calm of both horse and horse-master. Moll, standing well back, wondered if Miraz had already bespoken the promised horse, and if it would be a long-legged one like this; there seemed to be no short-legged ponies about.

The stable-girls, like their Master, did not speak much, but one of them was humming softly to herself as she worked, brushing smoothly and regularly down the sides of a great horse, which had its eyes closed in contentment. Her humming turned to crooning…

"…Hmm…hmmm…_ begin to murmur and the leaves begin to sound… _move over, Jess! _and the fearful winds of springtime start to blow…"_

"_Don't think of me, my dear one,"_ broke in another voice, warbling cheerfully enough, though the tune was a wistful one.

The first girl looked up and grinned, but let the newcomer carry the tune to its finish alone, "_lying cold on forest ground, for I've gone where Men of Telmar cannot go."_

Had that been written in their Cell or another, Moll wondered? And which Cell had provided some sweet singer to sing the song in taverns and market-places, until it filtered back here? It was a surprise to find such a melancholy song, sung so cheerfully in a warm stables, and perhaps a sign rather of the degree to which the idea of forest-fear had spread rather than its effectiveness in creating actual fear. No matter. The work was proceeding.

"Is that all there is?" she asked, and the stable-girl jumped. Moll had been standing so still for so long, that she had been almost forgotten.

"No… I don't know all the verses. There's one…" she took a deep breath.

"_When the branches twist and tangle, and the forest is in leaf_

_and death stalks in the forest as a Tree_

_Don't think of me, my dear one; _

_close your eyes to grief…_

But it goes a bit low for me after that."

Unexpectedly, the last line came, spoken, not singing, in the quiet voice of the Master of Horse: "_For I lie where Men of Telmar cannot be._"

There was a shadow of trouble across his calm, thoughtful face. So. _One_ thing she had achieved, anyway. Unease about the Trees was spreading across Telmar.

And one other thing. The sweet liveliness of his play with the pups, the calm steadiness of the stables, seemed between them to have brought a return, after several weeks, of the warmth she and Prince Caspian had shared together, back in the days when he could barely walk.

He was not so ashamed now, to hold her hand or to nestle against her again, not so aggressively sure that Miraz' men were the strongest and the tallest and the best. One late afternoon towards midsummer, as they walked back to the courtyard gate, through which lay the way to the Nursery, he sighed hugely and contentedly, with what seemed a happiness simply too big for his body to contain, and raised his glowing face to hers.

"Nurse, you are my _best person_ in the whole world!"

There were no words for her love and her yearning.

**ooooo**

**And then it was midsummer**. This year she was told that the traditional visit of the prince to pay homage to the portraits of his ancestors would not need her escort. The gentlemen-in-waiting and Seneschal would conduct Caspian to the Library; his uncle the King would be there, she was told.

Caspian was keyed up, excited again. He knew his uncle was the most powerful man in the Castle. And to have this Majesty-Uncle come with him on his annual visit to his pictures – he felt proprietal about the pictures, his own birthday pictures, and chattered all the time he was dressing for the treat.

"I can show him the ship, Nurse… and I can show him the ducks… and one of them is my own father…"

"Well, better just listen, I think, to what he tells you. He knows those pictures too, you know. And his own father is there as well!"

Prince Caspian turned to her with wonder on his face, "Did he have a _father_?"

Dell, who had brought him the fine embossed leather jerkin – sign of a festal day – huffed a half-laugh at that, but then recovered, and spoke more seriously. "Listen to Nurse, Your Highness. Just be quiet and hear what His Majesty has to say."

"Yes, Dell. Yes, Nurse." But it was clear he didn't really hear them, and it was time that he left with the Seneschal and the gentlemen-in-waiting.

She felt curiously bereft to see the child go without her – she had lost, this year again, her only chance to see Cornelius and to exchange information with him, and through him, the Cell.

**ooooo**

A few of them had gathered to farewell Grattandrak as he left for the summer gathering of the Network – gathered for last urgings, last questions.

"The two major reports – that word from Gruach especially – will shake some settled policies."

"Pah! Rumours and _feelings_! Beasts never give us any solid fact to work from."

Sletha's whiskers quivered resentfully; Grattandrak nodded in acknowledgement.

"Yes. Barrogich, understand that this Cell knows that we can trust Gruach; if he says that the Trees were aware..."

"Aware, not awake."

"Aware, yes. But even that. They have ways to speak, one to the next, which are not like ours, whether awake or not. Some word has been plainly been passed. Though they are not awake, this sense of shock and unease, which both Gruach and Grendel report – among the huntsmen, remember, as well as in the pack and felt near the Trees themselves – may be at the core of this year's council strategies."

"_May_ be! And the Trees are not awake, and even if they were, Trees move slow. We need to strike strong blows, _now_! What Ashdreo found…"

"Will be reported also… but reports of werewolves active…"

"Reports of werewolves _harassing_ and _attacking_ Telmarine outposts! _These_ are the sort of ally we need!

Quick anxious glances were exchanged between the Beasts present, but only Flet spoke.

"Never. We know why."

"Old tales! They hate Telmarines and so do we. There's room there for an alliance."

Grattandrak spoke decisively. "The enemy's enemy, Barrogich. We have discussed the double danger which werewolves would bring. We need alliances with proven friends, not werewolves."

"If you mean stinking Archenland," Barrogich spat. "_they_ are no friend of Narnia! Ask the Network why we have spent so long – and so much! – trying again and again to get something – _any_thing – from those 'friends'!"

"I will ask. But I am taking not just questions, but recommendations. We have heard the voice of the Cell."

"We are not all here! What about the two in the Castle? Do they lose their voice because they are not skulking here at home in safety?"

"Cornelius would certainly vote against any alliance with werewolves. Moll – she's a strange one," Grattandrak smiled, remembering some of Moll's strangeness, "but I think we can know how she would think here."

"Pah! You _think_ you can know! She's part-Iron, like me – whatever else she might be. She would be for striking hard and fast."

"Even if she joined you, Barrogich, the vote of this Cell was against any alliance with werewolves. But I will raise your thinking to the Network."

Barrogich snarled, but subsided.

**ooooo**

**Cornelius **was with the rest of the senior staff, lined up to welcome the King and his heir respectfully into the Library. Prince Caspian, as before, scarcely glanced at this array of figures, looking eagerly beyond them to the pictures, but King Miraz nodded gravely to each of the senior staff – they were, perforce, privy to many state secrets, and some, like Cornelius, had become trusted as a source of record, though not of advice. They were permitted to return to their desks while the King and the Prince undertook the survey of portraits, the child looking tensely attentive while the King discoursed.

Apparently absorbed in the papers on his desk, Cornelius tried to catch what was being said. The King seemed to be making instructive remarks and drawing lessons from each picture as they passed.

"This is King Glamorn, who extended Telmar's rule out of Narnia proper and across the great northern marshlands, which were then in a state of rebellion. Telmar, Conqueror, boy. It is by continuing expansion that a nation becomes great…

"This is your grandmother. A very great woman indeed. She gave her life to consolidation of our rule in the farther reaches of this land. Never forget – a king must follow _conquest_ by _consolidation_, and each is as important as the other. Monarchy is a work of many lifetimes."

The child was looking solemn, but he was clearly not understanding what was said; his interest in the pictures, even, was flagging, now that the stories had given way to abstract theories of domination. Miraz stopped.

"So… this is enough history for now. We will go onto the terrace and talk of matters a little closer to home, hey?"

Prince Caspian smiled uncertainly. As the ill-matched pair left through the tall doors to the bright sunshine of the high terrace outside, the King was observing, with stiff condescension "It is summer – did I not promise you that in summer you should have a horse of your own?"

The voices did not travel well from the terrace, and thereafter Cornelius could not hear much – _if Moll were here, we'd know exactly what they're saying_, he reflected ruefully. But what he did hear some short while later made him uneasy. They seemed to have moved on from talking about horses. Prince Caspian seemed to be chattering confidingly about matters better not spoken aloud—about Old Narnia, in short.

"…_all the animals could talk, and there were nice people who lived in the streams and the trees__…_"

Abruptly, Cornelius sensed a chasm of danger opening. He kept his eyes carefully on the papers in front of him, but the figures seemed to fade and shift before his eyes.

The King had stopped strolling now; the stiffness of his back showed clearly enough – to those whose lives depended on studying his moods – that his anger was swelling, that he was only holding himself in check to be more certain of the target for his anger, when he chose to strike.

"…_Aslan…_" That name leapt out of the childish babble only too clearly.

The staff in the Library were all now listening. None of them dared to look at another. All of them heard, and understood, the dangerously quiet note of interrogation in:

"_Who's he?_"

Then… just a few seconds later, in a voice like thunder, the savage, pouncing demand:

"_Who__ has been telling you all this nonsense?"_

Prince Caspian's reply – the child was sobbing, and his uncle was gripping him fiercely by both shoulders – was inaudible, but the King released him so suddenly as to make him stagger, shoving him away, as if in disgust at something beneath contempt. The little boy's face showed his panic, his fear, his confusion.

Miraz did not look at him again. His rage was back under tight control, the tight control which made him most dangerous, and his voice was cruelly cold. He called aloud along the terrace to the gentlemen-in-waiting: "Conduct His Royal Highness to his apartments and send His Royal Highness's nurse to me _at once_."

**ooooo**

**ooo**


	18. End of a mission

_**Narnia, and Aslan, and most of the characters in this story, come from the works of C.S. Lewis – so, with thanks to Lewis… here's the final chapter of 'Resistance'.**_

**Chapter 18: End of a mission**

"Conduct His Royal Highness to his apartments and send His Royal Highness's nurse to me _at once_."

Cornelius risked a glance. Along the terrace he could see the gentlemen-in-waiting, and behind them a quick flash of colour, as if some other person had just whisked out of sight. The gentlemen-in-waiting scrambled to attention, then marched along to where Prince Caspian stood, against the terrace balustrade. There was a few minutes' confusion; the child, frightened by his uncle, and now by the unnerving formality of the escort, shrank back, wedging himself between two balusters.

"At. Once." Miraz ground out; the ice-cold anger in his voice impelled the hesitating gentlemen-in-waiting to action. They approached the prince warily, extricated him from his refuge, laid heavy hands on his shoulders, and marched him away.

Cornelius kept his head low, but could not keep his quill moving over the parchment. The words wavered and shrank before his eyes; there seemed to be a black rim around his vision. How to get warning to Moll? Nothing. No answer. He had no shadow of a reason to go to the Nursery. There was no other agent who could get there quickly enough.

Moll. They all knew the risk. They had all accepted it as a possibility. She herself had said – but it was no use. The black rim that had edged his sight closed over. There was nothing he could do, and now he sat, without knowing it, unmoving on his high stool, with his eyes closed against the light of that knowledge.

**ooooo**

Moll was in the privy alcove when there was a sudden sound of tempestuous entry to the Nursery, and Pidda's horrified, excited voice.

"Dell, Dell – they're coming for Nurse now! The King… He's sending guards – they'll kill her!"

So now it had come. Moll silently settled her skirts, crossed the alcove, took her knife out of its hiding-place, and set her back to the wall. She would take one with her, at least.

"Well, she's down to the kitchen I think. Don't be making such a fuss."

But – Dell knew where she was.

There was a touch of panic now in Pidda's voice. "You didn't _hear_ him! Dell, it's like he was about the Gentlemen, and I couldn't stand to see it again! And if they don't find her, they'll blame us, and maybe take _us_! They'll be up in a minute!"

Dell's voice – flat, uninterested and puncturing Pidda's high excitement: "Then get down to the kitchen, and bring her back up. Get on, girl! And don't forget His Highness's nuncheon."

And then a door slamming, and quick footsteps crossing the room, and Dell, sweeping the privy curtains aside.

Moll gripped her knife and prepared to fight with all her strength and all her wit for her life. Dell's eyes flicked down to the knife and up again. Her mouth tightened, but she said nothing, only jerked her head over at the door that Pidda had left by, stepped across to it, looked out and then back at Moll.

"This way."

Any way was better than to be trapped like a rat in the Nursery - and she could fight as well out of the Nursery as in. Moll followed.

They did not turn down the corridor, the way which led to the kitchen and the storerooms, but across it, to the unobtrusive door on the other side. Dell opened it, turned, tugged Moll after her, and closed the door.

They were in a large chamber, sumptuously furnished – Moll saw a great bed, with dark gold and green hangings, and elaborately carved chairs, and footstools, and embroidery hanging half-finished on its frame, but all cold and somehow dark with long disuse. She turned, astonished, to Dell. The older maid stood against the door, her lips tightly pressed together. She felt Moll's silent questioning, and said, shortly:

"The Queen's rooms. Did you never think that a mother would need to be next to her child?"

No. She never had; a Human would have done, she supposed. And doubtless a Human would know why Dell's face now was more bleak than she had ever seen it, desolate, staring at the room and its furnishings almost hungrily. But no sooner had she seen that, than Dell closed her eyes completely, shook her head, and said – "We have no time – two-three minutes at most." She didn't even look to see if Moll was following.

Through that room, and through what must have been maids' or the Queen's ladies' rooms, and then another small door – almost a secret door - and then they were in another large room, larger even than the first, opulent, luxurious, with bed hangings of Telmarine blue and the Telmarine star, and two tall balconied windows, opening to the west, towards the ancestral Telmar. The King's rooms, certainly.

But… she looked about desperately – whichever doors and ways Dell knew, they must all lead to the Castle, and the whole of it was unsafe for her now. Dell spoke again, leading to another room, off to cool north end of the chamber.

"You, and we all, have a privy-nook, Nurse – but the King – King Caspian that was" her face twisted with sour mockery, "must needs have a garderobe. Can you swim?"

"Enough." Moll's mind – lightning-quick in desperate defence – had leapt to the meaning of it all. The garderobe doubtless emptied to the river; a quick way, a noisome way out. Well – just as well, then, that she was _not_ a finicky Human Woman

"It bends a little to get out to the river, but not too much."

Dell hauled aside a low bench, cut with a round lidded hole, revealing a dark tunnel opening, straight down, seemingly, then moved swiftly back to the great bed, tugging off sheets – then over to Moll, and reaching for Moll's knife. Moll stepped back, gripping the knife for action.

Dell's eyes snapped with impatience. "What do you think I'm doing? You are so _blind_, sometimes, Nurse!"

Moll let the knife go, and Dell slit the sheets with reckless speed, and knotted them into a sort of rope, tied to the privy-bench itself. She nodded to the open shaft, with a flash of dour humour.

"It's been near four years since anyone used it – you will not find it too untasty." Then, more seriously, "It is narrow. If you should stick…" she glanced at Moll's dumpy shape, "I will come back as soon as I might – it might be two days or more - and pull at the sheets, and try to get you up again, and we will think again. But try to get down to the river; they will have bloodhounds."

If she should stick, it would be a long, suffocating death. There was no point thinking of that. The river to throw the hounds off her scent. Yes. She began to strip off what hampering clothing she might – the jacket, the many-pocketed skirt. Dell kicked them away, under the bed.

"Dell…" She wanted to say so much, and there was no time, and she had no words. "Caspian." _Look after him, keep him from Miraz' influence, keep him safe, care for him._ But even if she couldn't say it, it seemed Dell heard it.

"I promised all of that, long ago. Go."

Moll floundered, remembering Dell's oath of loyalty, twelve months back "Promised - to his uncle?"

Impatience again, and something more, something quickly hidden.

"To his mother. Thank _her_ for your life. Now _go__!_ You endanger me with every second of delay."

Taking hold of the sheet-rope, Moll dropped into the shaft. Above her the privy-bench scraped back into place, and in the cool, mud-smelling darkness, she began the climb down.

**ooooo**

The Library staff continued to pretend total absorption in their work, but all of them were acutely aware of Miraz's mounting rage. They saw, though they could not hear the low-voiced report which provoked it, the heavy blow he smashed across the face of the man-in-waiting who returned, some fifteen minutes after the party had marched out, and they heard the orders he gave – in that icy, deadly voice – to turn out the guard, and to send the great bloodhound pack through the town and nearby farmlands.

Glozelle himself met the King in the Library. As the pair passed by Cornelius' desk, he caught scraps of their conversation.

"There was … the Calormene Ambassador mentioned that the Tisroc's court would gladly receive him for a year or two."

"To turn him into their tool and spy in my court! No, the boy shall stay here under my control."

"I shall have it announced through the kingdom…"

"No – no more come-by-chance appointments. It shall be one of our own, known to us." The King wheeled sharply and looked along the rows of Recorders and Ministers.

"Cornelius! Do you know mathematics? Grammar?" then, to Glozelle, "What more could the brat need?"

Glozelle murmured something in the king's ear. He snarled.

"No, I'll teach him that myself, when the time is right. For now, he needs good solid schooling to drive this rubbish from his mind. Cornelius! You are the boy's tutor. Teach him to read, to cipher and to write a good hand, enough for a prince."

Cornelius stood, uncertainly.

"Well? You understand me? You will sleep in the prince's apartments, and teach him whatever of grammar, ciphering, history, what-not, is needed for my heir."

"Your Majesty." Cornelius bowed. "I will go at once, and bring back from my lodgings in the town my little library and store of knowledge. I shall be back as early as might be tomorrow."

"Do so." The King turned away, indifferently, to focus on something of more importance. "When she is found…" Cornelius heard no more.

**ooooo**

It was narrow, yes, and stifling, in the dark there. A narrow shaft, through rock – so narrow that she did not really need Dell's rope, though maybe, if she did jam immoveably, inescapably caught there in the suffocating dark… she forced herself to breathe slowly, to call on Iron Dwarf heritage, and suppress the Human which dealt in the unrealities called _fear_ – suppress as well that other heritage, which craved freedom, and wildness and openness, and was beating against her mind at this constriction.

Iron Dwarf. The Iron, who live in rock and deal in hardness, who hold strong when others crumble, whose eyes see no colour, who live without fear or expectation. Iron Dwarf. She began slowly to edge down, twisting and squirming though the stifling blackness, scraping shoulder and hip against the cold unyielding stone.

Breathe. Down. Iron Dwarf live without fear. Breathe.

Down. The shaft widened. She could stretch out now, reaching one foot across an emptiness to touch the stone.

It was hard to judge the descent; she should have been counting down the layers of stonework as she edged past them… but that was the Human rising again, to think of what had not been. Still, she could judge from this place on, perhaps… though here inside the walls of the Castle they were not the great square blocks which showed on the outside, but small blocks and rubble – she smiled to herself, in the dark, at the Human fret about outward show, not solid reality.

But still, part of her mind did calculate as she moved down – sometimes edging her way past jutting stonework, sometimes dropping for short distances, using the sheet-rope to control her fall, the blank dark pressing into her eyes – by now, surely down as far as the Great Audience Chamber – the shaft was now so wide that she could not feel the sides at all – was she as far down as the kitchens? She had never looked out on the west side of the Castle, though the kitchens opened that way, toward the river. But this shaft, if it reached the river, must…

She could hear the river lapping.

She stopped, hanging on the rope, and took control of her breathing again. The river sounded close, but the shaft might magnify the sound. The rope moved very freely below her; it was not made heavy by its own weight now, which was to say: it had not much length left.

If she had to drop, maybe to crack her skull against some uneven, jutting stonework … well, if she had to drop, she had to drop. She had no choice, since the shaft was so wide now that she could not hope to use her short body length to brace across it.

Hand by hand, she moved down through the blackness, toward the murmuring of the water, moved down to the last poor end of the sheet. And dropped.

Blackness, rushing, choking in water, rushing, pushed, banged against the stone of the opening, up and grabbing air and battered now against wood – against the kitchen jetties. She was being rushed downstream, whirled away down. Up again and grabbing at the few slender reeds which grew on a fast-flowing inner curve, clutched at the mud, under a sheltering muddy overhang… she was against the edges of the little scrap of land where three elms had stood.

She felt suddenly, hideously, visible. The time in the darkness had seemed interminable, but here, it was still bright daylight, not long past midday. The sun was so sharp, so bright. She felt pinned by its light, inescapably visible to the Castle looming above her, with the South Tower so close, and the Nursery windows, and below that the broad terrace outside the Library. There was nothing she could do. If she let go of the reeds, she would be caught again by the river, and taken past the very gatehouse of the Castle, where Glozelle's guards… but she could not stay here, cowering under shallow curve of the bank.

She looked over to the dense reedbeds on the other side, where the river ran slower around the greater sweep. If she were there, she could lie unseen till night. Unseen and in the river, where Mara's kin could not track her scent. But to get there, with no searching eye to see her head…

A low, creaking snigger interrupted her thoughts, and then a breathy, cynical, cheerful voice.

"Looks like you're Water-brood after all, Moll, floating there in your shift and your skin!"

Uach.

**ooooo**

Uach and three other Ducks had covered her ungainly crossing of the river – for despite her boast to Dell, she found that she was not strong enough to swim against the river's current. But with Krimbin, low in the reeds, hauling on the rope they brought her, and with the little covey of Ducks shielding her head from view, she made it to the thick reedbeds.

She was able to exchange a few words with him then, as he sat in his little flat-bottomed boat, making some play with fishtraps as cover. He spoke quickly, but steadily, looking out across the river as she stood behind him, shoulder-deep in water.

"I'm sorry to leave you in this case, Moll. It'll be hard for you, the next few hours, but they have not thought of me yet, and maybe if they don't see me in the Castle for a day or two, they won't think of me at all. I won't go far - just a few hours upstream, and then back. If you have no other chance to get away, then be here after midnight, and we'll make for Torrinsedge. You can lie there for a time; there's a safe house there."

"And you?"

"I'll stay two-three days, then be back here again. It's been a year since I brought you apples; a few days will help them forget."

"I hope so. They have short memories."

And the Network needed its only remaining operative close to the Castle—but neither of them said that aloud.

"Until midnight, then."

"Say, two hours after."

"Agreed."

The little boat slipped away upstream; she watched it go through a screen of reeds.

It was still early in the afternoon when she heard the hounds brought out, baying, as they came out across the bridge and through the town, and out around the farm and close woodlands. Through the rest of the long summer day she heard the sharp cluster of confused sounds of the pack, now closer, now distant, now with the excited bark of the youngsters, now with the more tuneful bellnotes of the older hounds.

And so her life had circled around again, to be hunted with hounds. Though these were, from the sound of it, going from house to house through the town, and searching the little farmhouses and outbuildings, and the last time had been through forest. But that was years ago, and this pack now she could hear were near the shed where the Cell used to meet. Well, there was nothing for them there, after so long.

If they had thought to take the hounds through the Castle itself, though… she wondered briefly about Dell, and then about Caspian. _You're my best person ever_, he had said. She would miss that, to have someone who loved her, and valued her. But that was not wise thinking; she pulled her thoughts away from the unreal future, and made herself think only of the present moment. It was cold standing in the river.

**ooooo**

Not until long after nightfall, when the hunt was called off, and the packhounds had streamed back across the bridge to the Castle outbuildings, did she leave the reedbeds, and even then it was a cautious, creeping journey to the cowshed, shrouded in a dun-coloured cloak sent by old Tau.

Other clothing sent by Tau she found at the shed – her shift had been torn to rags, and she was able to dress again, to her comfort, in good, strong cloth. And then the time before midnight she spent in telling all she had learnt, and in hearing from them, too, of the day's developments. Grattandrak was at the summer gathering of the network, but she told all she had gathered to a small, picked group – to Cornelius, who would catalogue and compare it and make a library of knowledge from her scraps, and to Flet, who had a Goat's hard, retentive memory, and to Sletha, who listened with a Hare's ear for the things unsaid – or even things unknown to the sayer.

At midnight, those few who had been able to get the message straggled into the shed, but it was a fretful and inconclusive meeting. Without Grattandrak, the group seemed to fracture into squabbling disparate parts, and old arguments scraped again at their fragile cohesion.

"We could work with them! "

"They are not part of Narnia. And an enemy's enemy is a double danger."

_Was that so_? Moll wondered. _Had she not joined with the Cell for that very reason, that they were her enemy's enemy?_

"They took part in the Slaying." Ashdreo spoke very low, but his quietness sounded menacing in Moll's ears.

Then Cornelius' voice, measured in judgement: "There is good reason for caution, Barrogich. The history is against it, and also … they are untrusty by nature. Wolves mate with wolves, and Humankind with Humankind, but _werewolves…_"

He paused, and Grindel growled low in her throat.

"Also, as you see, it would be a great cause of division between us. The Network has been slowly and painfully built up; it would be great foolishness to fracture it on such unchancy policy."

Moll listened without speaking. Her silence drew Barrogich's anger to her – as Iron has ever drawn down fury to itself, she thought, wryly.

"Our Moll has changed. She sits here now like sucking in what we say, like a Toad, and giving nothing of her mind."

She did not answer, and his eyes were narrowed further in suspicion.

"Is it the Human winning out in you? You were always something strange, not quite true metal."

He did not know – none of them knew – how strange – and how perverse it was, that it was Barrogich, of them all, who should turn on her now.

"It is late to scratch at that seam, Barrogich. I have spent years holding my tongue. Perhaps I have learnt the way of it."

Iron spoke to iron in their eyes, in no friendly exchange.

_It would do you no harm to learn to hold your tongue, Barrogich._

_I do not trust you!_

Cornelius saw, and spoke, peaceably. "It is late, and Moll must leave us. Barrogich, Moll has given much to us – we will speak more of that at our next meeting. Moll, we do not doubt your value to the Cause."

They '_did not doubt_'! After so long, she had worked alone, and they '_did not doubt_'! The bitterness rose in her, but she said nothing. Cornelius would find soon enough what it was to work alone in the Castle.

"We should leave her now to rest before her journey; she leaves us in an hour and will not be back for maybe many years. Flet, Uach… overlay her scent here – and mine! – as best you can, when we have gone; tomorrow's sun should disperse what scent will be left there in the meadowgrass. Moll, though you leave the Cell, be assured that we will call again for you somehow. Grattandrak will not let such a valuable worker lie unused for long!"

Moll nodded in acknowledgement, but there was too much truth in the pleasantry. The Cell valued her for her use, but not for herself.

Since the last of her family had died, only a Telmarine child had valued her in herself, for what she was in herself. And now she had left that one, and he was lost to her, as her family was lost to her, and even these, who valued her for her usefulness alone, she was leaving.

"I do not need to rest for the journey, Cornelius. I will go to the river now."

"As you choose. Moll, I will meet you there, and bring you somewhat which may be of help."

And so back to the river. With Tau's cloak swaddling her, and in the dark, she was close to invisible, and the hounds were kennelled for the night—she felt she could risk to sit dry on the bank, and think through what she had learned in the last hour.

"_Wolves mate with wolves,_" they had said, "_and Humankind with Humankind, but __werewolves__…_"

So the Cell held true to the thinking of _good Narnians_, all but Barrogich, who found her – as well he might! – not 'true metal'.

Well, it was true – her ancestors had mated as the time and form dictated, and their offspring again, and when in Human form with Black Dwarf, Iron Dwarf, and then again with Human, or with other werewolf in human form, as time and form and desire dictated, cross-plaitings again and again for a thousand years, but always, however thin grew the blood, with one of the litter to hold the name which recalled the fierce warrior of old, not an ancestor, but kin, nonetheless.

In so very few of the clan had the blood run strong enough to let the Change take place. Not in her lifetime, nor had her parents known one who had that gift from the ancestors. And she - she had so little of their gifts – she was the last and least worthy of her clan. She had seen her mother, and her brothers and sisters die, fighting, and had hidden away then, as the weakest and last of the litter.

She had so little of the heritage, but what she had, she would grip strong till she died – to hold to the memory of those who had been wronged and hated, and to find a way to repay…

"But hate is not a debt, Daughter."

A voice as quiet as the river, as deep as the hidden earth below it. It was the Lion.

Out there in the dark, where she could not see, was the Lion, who had cheated in a lawful debt, who had pretended that night that he loved her, but whose people…

"Your people hate me!"

"Yes." He let the answer lie, like a stone. She searched the blackness, but could see nothing of him. She would _not_ be afraid.

"If the _Lion-lovers_," she flung the term at him in defiance, "hate me, why are you here?"

There was a low growl, like the earth shifting, and for a moment she _was_ afraid.

"_Lion-lovers_ do not set the limits to the Lion's loving."

And then a heavy, soft padding. He was coming closer, she supposed, though his voice seemed no nearer than before.

"I have come because you have far to go, and much to give to my people, to Narnians and Telmarines; I have come to bless you on your journey."

To give to them! When she had given so much for so long… She pushed aside the Lion-talk – Ashdreo-talk! – of _blessing_, to spatter her indignation at his impossible demands.

"You want me to give _more_ to them? Why should I give them _anything_? The Telmarines would have killed me, and tonight these _good Narnians_ make plain they would hate me, if they knew me…" She stopped, choking on her words, then managed to get out " There is too much blood-debt owed already to talk of _giving_."

"But _hate is not a debt_, Daughter. It is a wound, to be healed." He came closer still; she could see now the outline of his huge, shaggy head, and the swelling shoulders behind. She shivered. It was like throwing pebbles against a mountain, to set her truth against him.

"Molgrimach… Maugrimach… Maugrim's kin – and Child of Earth, and Daughter of Eve, and my Beloved... who should know better than you that there are deep wounds in Narnia?"

She could see his face now, and his burning golden eyes.

"Wounds not only from Telmar - wounds left by an ancient evil, wounds which you yourself have known and suffered. Between Telmarine and Narnian, and between Narnian and Narnian – you will be part of the healing of those wounds."

The words swirled around her, ungraspably, confusingly; she clutched at one clear reality, the reality given her by those who had gone before.

"But _n__othing_ can be healed until the debts are paid."

The eyes burned into her, terribly, inescapably.

"And what comes, when the debts of hatred are repaid with hatred, and the debts of cruelty with cruelty? Did you find healing there, that day?"

That day. She remembered the terrible sickness and coldness which had washed over her, that day, and how he had breathed comfort to her then. Then, he had come to comfort, but now – this was more difficult. She felt as if she was staggering against the power of an overwhelming flood.

He spoke, very low "Molgrimach, child of great heritage - you must learn this: nothing can be healed until the debtors are let go."

But the debts would _stay_, and debts unpaid would fester, _did_ fester.

She was the weakest, last, one of her line, but she must speak for them, she could not betray the heritage which had been trusted to her. She spoke desperately, urgently, feeling that this Lion was the one being of all who needed to hear her truth, and that he needed to hear it _now_, before this flood of overwhelming power swept away her crumbling resistance.

"How can that be true? Debts _must_ be paid, and wrongs _must_ be avenged. I have been waiting all my life to find revenge."

"Ahhhhhh…" and now the great head was bent down over her, and a long warm exhalation bathed and surrounded her, like warm golden light, washing over her.

"Beloved child, you hold your great gift so ardently and still so wrongly! You ask me how it can be true… I promise you this: when you see me again, you will _know_ it is true, and you will know that you have known it for many years. You will know then what it is that you have waited for, all your life."

And even as the flood swirled around her, she felt again frustration at this shifting, ungraspable _Lion-talk_.

"_What_ gift? You say you have given me a gift, but I have _nothing_ – not even these clothes are my own!"

"Daughter!" There was unmistakeably a gentle laughter now, in that strong voice. "You yourself are the gift I gave you. Your Iron heritage of long enduring, and Werewolf heritage of quick-witted fighting, and Human heritage of deep feeling – it was a hard and heavy and wonderful gift, and you have wielded it well. With pain and tears you have wielded your difficult gift, and from that already the healing has begun."

She looked up at him, piteously and wonderingly, half doubting, and half wanting to believe. That hate could be healed, not repaid? That he had called her _beloved_?

"Molgrimach…" Her name, in his voice, was unendingly, achingly beautiful. She felt as if she could almost, _almost_, see amazing things, things not dreamt of. "You hold so strong, so truthfully, with so much valour – how could I not love you? You have my promise. When we meet again, you will know it is true, and you will know _then_ what it is you have waited for."

"But _now_… ahhhh, beloved" and again he breathed on her. A new light flashed in the terrifying, wonderful golden eyes, like an explosion of energy and anticipation and enormous delight. "Go now and bear your great gift valiantly, and take this blessing and the adventure which lies before you! This, _all_ this, is for your joy!"

And then he was gone. It was not like the other time – there was no glory in it – he just simply was not there, and looking through where he had been standing she could see a small shape in the gloom, small, but walking steadily towards her.

It was Cornelius, carrying several unwieldy bundles.

"It's not much, Moll. Just to make things easier, that's all." He had brought her a sturdy jacket, a pair of his own boots, a small leather purse, well-filled, bread and cheese and dried figs, a knitted shawl… her mind flashed to the 'knitting group' of her talk with Krimbin – she laughed aloud, and thought that she could share the joke with him, on their journey.

Cornelius stood patiently a little higher on the bank, not asking her why she had laughed, as she buttoned on the jacket; it moved her that he stood so humbly, and that he had thought of these homely comforts in the midst of his own preparations for a hard mission. Looking up at him, she realised for the first time that he was not only a learned doctor, and a fellow-worker against the enemy, but, oddly, a friend.

He saw her eyes on him, and pulled out one more bundle from his breast.

"One other thing, Moll. This is not for your use – though maybe there might be a time for you to use it."

She felt its shape through the wrappings.

"It is a horn? When would _I_ blow a horn?"

"I hope such a time does not come, because it would be a hard time indeed. This horn – it is Narnia's greatest treasure, I think, and is not for such as us to blow, save in truly terrible peril. I have not ever told you, Moll, though once I came near it – and now there is no time to tell – but many years ago, I dwelt for a time with a group of great seers, and with their help I found this precious relic. Moll, I know you do not believe, but," he peered through the dark, "this has come to us from the Great Monarchs of the past, the Four who prevailed. It has great power for help. I know by the art of those seers that this will one day, in the right hands, help to bring healing to our torn Narnia. I have kept it safe by me ever since, but I dare not take it into the Castle."

She nodded; she had lost all her little possessions in her escape, even her knife.

"Moll, there is no one among us all whom I would trust more than you with this. I have seen you how unshakeably you have guarded the child, for Narnia…"

She felt again the chill of failure and of loss. "I fear I did not keep him from their influence in the end. His uncle – Cornelius, if the prince is much in his company, he will be wrenched slowly into becoming one of them. It was beginning to happen even when I was there, and I could not stop it… If I had been Human, maybe…"

"You would not be Moll, and could not have done what you have done. Well. I have more Human than you, and I will do my best, I swear to you, to keep what you have left behind safe – and do you keep this safe for me! I am entrusting you with what has been the greatest work of my life till now."

"As I…," she said quickly, and then fell silent.

"Yes – as you have now to trust me with your greatest work. A pledge for a pledge, Moll?" She did not speak. "I will find you and claim it if ever I see the way to bring it to its rightful place, to place the Horn in the hands of the one who must sound it."

"And who is that?"

"I don't yet know. But I pledge you, Moll, my life will be spent from this night on, in guarding your treasure and to searching with all my mind and strength to find in whose hands I must place mine, when I can claim it again."

She narrowed her eyes a little, and was abrupt in reply. "Never fear. I will keep it safe for you."

She stowed it well down inside the jacket, close against her breast, and sat down again, thoughtfully. She could not match fine words to fine words – she was not able to say to Cornelius all that she felt. But it seemed to her that the horn, or Cornelius, or the Lion, had already begun to heal… something, and that in turn … maybe she could believe. Maybe she did have a place to play in the healing of Narnia.

And then a soft swishing told them that Krimbin was approaching. Moll stood up again, and brushed down her skirts, in readiness to leave.

The boat crunched gently against the bank, and the broad prow glided like a platform to her feet, and it was time. She slid down into the boat, as Krimbin held it steady; Cornelius reached across, treading into the muddy edge of the river to touch her hand in farewell – the last touch perhaps, she thought, that he would have from a fellow-worker for many years.

She frowned a little, bidding farewell. There was so much she would like to have said. But he was right – there was no time. Only, she could say… unexpectedly words she had never said before, words she hardly knew the meaning of, came from her lips.

"And… uhh… Lion keep you, Cornelius."

It was with a slightly mischievous pleasure that she saw the total astonishment on his face, just dimly visible above his silver beard, as the boat slipped away onto the dark, quiet river.

**- ooooo -**

**- ooo -**

_**A/N –** Well… that's the end. Thank you all for reading – it's been a long haul! – and warm thanks to reviewers – I really, really was hanging out for those reviews, and each one was read and reread and very much appreciated. Special thanks to rthstewart, my first and steadiest reviewer, who not only gave much-needed encouragement, but also useful advice along the way._

_But… this is not just thanks - it's also a request, or invitation, **especially to those reading the story in 2013**. I know sometimes reading an old story might feel as if the time for review has passed, but I would still really like to know how you reacted to this story, so if you have the time, please do let me know, by PM if you don't want to leave a public review.  
_

_And also if there's anything I've left unexplained – well, I know there is, because most of this was seen through Moll's eyes, and there's a lot she was simply oblivious of – if there's any questions anyone would like to ask, I will do my best to answer them. Thank you! It's been a long haul, but I've enjoyed it._


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